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ONE THOUSAND POEMS 
FOR CHILDREN 








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■ 




















* 




! 






































© G. W. J. & CO. 

A listenin’ to the ivitch-tales ’at Annie tells about 

LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE 




ONE THOUSAND POEMS 
FOR CHUDREN 


J' >«4£&!Lz.< 


A CHOICE OF THE BEST VERSE 

OLD AND 'NEW' 

EDITED BYROGERINGPEN 

Revised and Enlarged Edition 
Illustrated bu Ethel Franklin Betts 

PHILADELPHIA 

GEORGE W JACOBS ANI) COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 















































Copyright, 1920 

Revised edition Copyright 1923, by 
George W. Jacobs & Company 


to 


\ \ 




,C4 

4^1 _ 


All rights reserved 
Printed in U. S. A. 


OCT 17 |S23 

©C1A759441 


; M «3 


Prefatory Note 

As perhaps nothing leaves a more lasting impression on the memory than 
the poems one learns in childhood, it is important that children should be 
provided with poetry that is both pleasant to read and profitable to remember, 
and it is to meet these two needs that the present volume has been prepared. 

In compiling the work, the two objects which have primarily been kept 
in mind are the claim of poetry and the demand of the children; but, since the 
collection is intended chiefly for the pleasure of our boys and girls, the demand 
of the children has been considered first. For this reason, most of the old 
favorites which, because of their very familiarity, deserve a place in all col¬ 
lections of children’s verse, have been selected, together with a generous 
quantity of nursery rhymes; but it has been deemed wise also to include the 
most desirable specimens of recent juvenile poetry. The form of verse that 
first appeals to the young is that of a mere pleasing repetition of sound and 
rhythm without regard to meaning; but this soon gives way to the little story, 
quite simple and simply told, it is true, but which nevertheless conveys an idea. 
The story continues to hold its place in the affection of the child until the 
period of youth is reached, when abstract subjects in poetry begin to offer 
attraction, and a child cannot be said really to care for poetry in the true 
sense until this time arrives. 

The sections into which the book are divided do not seem to demand much 
explanation, as it can be seen at a glance that the volume embraces poems for 
children of all ages, from the very little tot to the average child of fifteen 
years. The first part, of course, is intended for young children; the second 
part for older boys and girls who have reached an age at which they can 
appreciate such material as is included therein. The sections entitled “Bal¬ 
lads,” “Girlhood” and “Miscellaneous,” contain most of the real poetry 
in the volume, the earlier divisions being intended to lead up to these later 
groups. It is believed that every single piece in the book has some special 
merit, and that the volume will be of particular value to parents and teachers. 

The editor’s thanks are due the following authors, publishers and author’s 
representatives who have kindly granted permission to use their poems in this 
volume:— 

Mrs. Katharine Tynan Hinkson, for “Chanticleer.” 


VI 


Prefatory Note 

Frederick Petersen, for “Wild Geese.” Also Harper’s Weekly in which 
this poem originally appeared, and its successor The Independent. 

Mrs. John W. Chadwick, for “King Edwin’s Feast” by John W. Chad¬ 
wick. 

The Bobbs-Merrill Company, for the poems by James Whitcomb Riley, 
from the Biographical Edition of his complete works, copyright, 1913. 

J. B. Lippincott Company, for “To England” by George Henry Boker, 
and ‘ ‘ Sheridan’s Ride ’’ by Thomas Buchanan Read. 

Little, Brown and Company, for “Summer Days,” and “Child’s Talk in 
April” by Christina Georgina Rossetti, “When the Leaves Came Down” by 
Susan Coolidge, and ‘ ‘ The Grass and the Bee ’ ’ by Emily Dickinson. 

George W. Jacobs and Company, for “The Teapot Dragon,” “P’s and 
Q’s,” “Jack-in-the-Pulpit,” “The Secrets of Our Garden,” “Foolish Flow¬ 
ers,” and “When I Grow Up,” from All ’Round Our House , by Rupert 
Sargent Holland. 

G. P. Putnam’s Sons, for “Bartholomew” by Norman Gale, and “Rod¬ 
ney’s Ride” by Elbridge S. Brooks. 

Charles Scribner’s Sons, for “Jest ’Fore Christmas,” “Seein’ Things,” 
and “Wynken, Blynken, and Nod,” by Eugene Field, and “One, Two, 
Three,” by H. C. Bunner. 

The selections from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Oliver Wendell 
Holmes, John Greenleaf Whittier, Lucy Larcom, Bayard Taylor, James Rus¬ 
sell Lowell, John Townsend Trowbridge, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Christopher 
Pearse Cranch, Edmund Clarence Stedman, and John Godfrey Saxe are used 
by permission of, and by special arrangement with, Houghton Mifflin Com¬ 
pany, the authorized publishers of their works. 

“0 Little Town of Bethlehem” is taken by permission from Christmas 
Songs and Easter Carols, by Phillips Brooks, published by E. P. Dutton and 
Company, New York. 


One Thousand Poems for Children 


Table of Contents.. 

PART I 

I. Rhymes for Little Ones. . u 

II. Cradle Songs ..108 

III. Nursery Rhymes. 114 

IV. Fairy Land ..146 

V. Fables and Riddles.• .158 


PART II 

VI. The Seasons. 179 

VII. Fields and Woods . 207 

VIII. Home .. 231 

IX. Insects, Birds, and Beasts ....... 248 

X. Humorous Verse ..286 

XI. Poems of Patriotism and History.318 

XII. Ballads. 367 

XIII. Girlhood.434 

XIV. Poems of Praise. 453 

XV. Miscellaneous. 474 


Index of Authors . 5 22 

Index of First Lines . .. 533 

Index of Titles. 545 
































































































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Table of Contents 


I 


Rhymes for Little Ones 


Early Rising . 

Good-Night and Good-Morning. 

My Little Brother . 

Infant Joy . 

Choosing a Name . 

My Little Sister . 

Bartholomew . 

I Must Not Tease My Mother. 

Baby . 

Only a Baby Small . 

The First Tooth. 

The Crust of Bread . 

I Love Little Pussy. 

The North Wind Doth Blow. 

A Visit to the Lambs . 

Deeds of Kindness . 

The Little Star. 

The Mother’s Return . 

How Doth the Little Busy Bee. 

Baby-land . 

Let Dogs Delight to Bark and Bite ... 

The Cow. 

Come Here Little Robin . 

Pussy-Cat . 

Strange Lands. 

The Lamb. 

The Flowers . 

The Violet . 

The Robin Redbreasts . 

Crumbs to the Birds . 

The Bird’s Nest . 

The Sheep . 

The Pet Lamb. 

The Turtle-Dove’s Nest . 

The Waves on the Sea-Shore . 

The City Mouse and the Garden Mouse 

The Nest . 

Birdie . 

What Is Veal? . 

The Poppy . 

The Young Linnets . 

Common Things . 


Flora Hastings . 

Lord Houghton . 

Mary Lundie Duncan . 

William Blake . 

Charles and Mary Lamb . 

Unknown . 

Norman Gale . 

Lydia Huntly Sigourney . 

George Macdonald . 

Matthias Barr . 

Charles and Mary Lamb . 

Unknown . 

Jane Taylor . 

Unknown . 

Unknown . 

Epes Sargent . 

Jane Taylor .. 

Dorothy Wordsworth . 

Isaac Watts . 

George Cooper . 

Isaac Watts . 

Jane Taylor . 

Unknown . 

Ann Hawkshawe . 

Laurence Alma-Tadema . 

Unknoivn . 

Unknown . 

Jane Taylor . 

Ann Hawkshawe . 

Charles arid Mary Lamb . 

Elisabeth Turner . 

Ann Taylor . 

William Wordsworth . rrrTT- 

Ann Hawkshawe . 

Ann Hawkshawe . 

Christina Georgina Rossetti _ 

Mary Elliott . 

Elisa Lee Follen . 

Mary Elliott . 

Jane Taylor . 

Ann Hawkshawe . 

Ann Hawkshawe . 


II 

11 

12 
12 
12 
13 
13 
13 

13 

14 

14 

15 
15 
15 

15 

16 
16 

16 

17 

18 
18 
18 

18 

19 

19 

20 
20 
20 
20 
21 
21 
21 
21 

23 

24 
24 
24 

24 

25 
25 

25 

26 






















































































X 


Table of Contents 


The Glow-Worms ... 

The Great Brown Owl. 

Oh! Book at the Moon... 

Dame Duck’s First Lecture on Education. 

A Legend of the Northland. 

The Chorus of Frogs. 

Who Has Seen the Wind. 

A Cat to Her Kittens. 

To a Butterfly. 

The Canary . 

Kindness to Animals... 

The Clocking Hen. 

Sleepy Harry . 

The World .. 

The Lamb. 

The Lost Lamb. 

The Greedy Piggy that Ate too Fast. 

A Little Hobby-Horse . 

The Pond . 

The Spider and His Wife. 

The Butterfly’s Ball . 

The Butterfly’s Funeral. 

The Spider and the Fly. 

Snowdrops .. 

There was a Little Girl .. 

The Reformation of Godfrey Gore. 

The Mouse and the Cake.. 

The Death of Master Tommy Rook. 

How the Little Kite Learned to Fly. 

The Ant and the Cricket. 

The World’s Music. 

Going Down Hill on a Bicycle . 

Playgrounds . 

Loving and Liking. 

The Cottager to Her Infant. 

Big and Little Things. 

Address to a Child During a Boisterous Winter 

Evening . 

The Shadows. 

Envy . 

Anger . 

The Sluggard . 

Little Rain-Drops . 

Try Again. 

King Bruce and the Spider. 

Little Things . 

The Little Sister Left in Charge. 

The Cow and the Ass. 

Beasts, Birds and Fishes. 

Child’s Song in Spring . 

The Bird-Catcher . 

The Oak . 

The Crocus . 

The Wind’s Song. 

The Wind and the Moon. 

The Farm . 

The Piper on the Hill . 

Little White Lily . 

How the Leaves Came. Down.. -. 


Ann Hawkshawe . 

Ann Hawkshawe . 

Eliza Lee Follen . 

Ann Hawkshawe . 

Phoebe Cary . 

Ann Hawkshawe . 

Christina Georgina Rossetti _ 

Eliza Grove . 

Flora Hastings ... 

Elizabeth Turner . 

Unknown . 

Ann Hawkshawe . 

Unknown . 

William Brighty Rands . 

William Blake . 

Thomas Westwood . 

Eliza Grove . 

Eliza G rove . 

Jane Taylor . 

Jane Taylor . 

William Roscoe . 

Unknown . 

Mary Flowitt . 

W. Graham Robertson . 

Unknown . 

William Brighty Rands . 

Eliza Cook . 

Eliza Cook . 

Unknown . 

Unknown . 

Gabriel Setoun . 

Henry Charles Beeching . 

Laurence Alma-Tadema . 

Dorothy Wordsworth . 

Dorothy Wordsworth . 

Alfred H. Miles . 

,, 

Dorothy Wordsworth . .Is. . 

Mary Lundie Duncan . 

Charles and Mary Lamb . 

Charles and Mary Lamb . 

Isaac Watts . 

Ann Hazvkshawe . 

William Edward Hickson . 

Eliza Cook . 

Ebenezer Cobham Brewer . 

Cecil Frances Alexander . 

Jane Taylor . 

Adelaide O’Keeffe . 

Edith Nesbit . 

Elizabeth Turner . 

Mary Elliott . 

Mary Elliott . 

Gabriel Setoun .. 

George Macdonald . 

Jane Taylor . 

Dora Sigcrson Shorter . 

George Macdonald . 

Susan Coolidge . 


26 

26 

27 

27 

28 

29 

30 
30 
30 

30 

31 
3i 
3i 

3 1 

32 

32 

33 
33 

33 

34 

35 
.36 

37 

38 

39 
39 

39 

40 
42 

42 

43 

43 

44 
44 
44 

44 

45 

46 

47 
47 

47 

48 
48 
48 
50 

50 

51 

52 

53 

53 

54 
54 

54 

55 

56 

57 

57 

58 





















































































































Table of Contents 


XI 


The Muffin-Man’s Bell . 

The Letter . 

The Old Kitchen Clock . 

The Wild Wreath . 

The Dancing Lesson . 

A Swinging Song. 

Silkworms . 

Little Dandelion . 

A Rule for Birds’ Nesters. 

The Beasts in the Tower. 

Bunches of Grapes. 

The Blue Boy in London. 

The Farmer’s Round. 

What Does Little Birdie Say. 

Under My Window. 

October’s Party. 

Summer Days . 

The Voice of Spring . 

Tack Frost . 

The Useful Plough . 

The Water Mill . 

Going Into Breeches. 

Lady Moon . 

The Castle Builder . 

Of What Are Your Clothes Made. 

George and the Chimney-Sweeper. 

Neatness in Apparel . 

The Lark and the Rook.:. 

Another Plum-Cake . 

Cleanliness . 

A Shooting Song. 

Rudeness . 

The Peddler’s Caravan. 

Mv Lady Wind. 

The City Child . 

Thanksgiving Day . 

Sir Lark and King Sun: A Parable . 

Minnie and Winnie .. 

Foolish Emily and Her Kitten . 

Miss Sophia . 

Nimble Dick . 

The Story of Augustus Who Would Not Have Any 

Soup .. .. 

The Courtship, Merry Marriage, and Picnic Dinner 

of Cock Robin and Jenny Wren. 

A Visit From St. Nicholas. 

The Children’s Hour . 

The Barefoot Boy. 

Our Mother . 

A Year’s Windfalls . 

Tlrpa WaQt ... 

Who Stole the Bird’s Nest. 

The Dessert . 

Birds in Summer. 

Seven Times One. 

Polly . 

The Lost Doll . 

Come, Little Leaves ....... 

Freddie and the Cherry Tree. 


Ann Hazvkshazvc . 

Elisabeth Turner . 

A nn Hawkshawe . 

Unknown . 

Eliza Grove . 

Mary Howitt . 

Mary Elliott . 

Helen Barron Bosiwick . 

Unknown . 

Charles and Mary Lamb . 

" Walter Ramal n . 

William Brighty Rands . 

Uiiknown . 

Alfred Tennyson . 

Thomas Westwood . 

George Cooper . 

Christina Georgina Rossetti _ 

Mary Howitt . 

Gabriel Setoun . 

Unknown . 

“Aunt Effie" . 

Charles and Mary Lamb . 

Lord Houghton . 

Jean de La Fontaine . 

Ann and Jane Tavlor . 

Adelaide O'Keeffe . 

Charles and Mary Lamb . 

Unknown . 

Ann and Jane Taylor . 

Charles and Mary Lamb . 

William Brighty Rands . 

Elizabeth Turner . 

William Brighty Rands . 

Unknozvn . 

A If red T ennyson . 

Lydia Maria Child . 

George Macdonald . 

Alfred Tennyson . 

Adelaide O'Keeffe . 

Elizabeth Turner . 

Adelaide O'Keeffe . 

Heinrich Hoffmann . 

Unknozvn . 

Clement Clarke Moore . 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow., 

John Greenleaf Whittier . 

Unknozvn ... 

Christina Georgina Rossetti - 

Charles and Mary Lamb . 

Lydia Maria Child . 

Charles and Mary Lamb . 

Mary Howitt . 

Jean Ingelozv . 

William Brighty Rands . 

Charles Kingsley . 

George Cooper . 

Ann Hawkshawe . 


58 

59 
59 

59 

60 
60 

60 

61 
61 

61 

62 

62 

63 

64 

64 

65 

65 

66 
66 
67 

67 

68 
68 
69 

69 

70 

70 

70 

71 

71 

72 

72 

73 
73 

73 

74 

74 

75 

75 

76 

76 

77 

77 

79 

80 

81 

82 
82 

84 

84 

8 ^ 

86 

87 

87 

88 
88 
89 

















































































































• ft 

Xll 


Table of Contents 


The Dream of a Girl Who Lived at Seven Oaks 

Which Is the Favourite. 

Romance . 

Employment . 

The Peach . 

The Orange . 

Oxfordshire Children’s May Song . 

Two Apple-Howling Songs . 

The Brown Thrush. 

Nursery Song . 

The Robin to His Mate . 

Twenty Froggies. 

The Doll’s House. 

The Good Girl . 

A Story for a Child. 

Lucy’s Canary . 

To a Little Girl Gathering Flowers. 

Snow . 

How to Write a Letter. 

Pippa’s Song . 

The New Book. 

Queen Mab. 

The Teapot Dragon . 

P’s and Q’s . 

Jack-in-the-Pulpit. 

The Secrets of our Garden. 

Foolish Flowers . 

When I Grow Up . 

The Little Boy’s Good-Night. 

Going to Bed at Night . 

If No One Ever Marries Me. 

Mr. Nobody.. 

Bed in Summer. 

A Thought .. 

At the Seaside . 

Whole Duty of Children. 

Foreign Lands. 

A Good Play. 

The Land of Counterpane .. 

My Shadow . 

Escape at Bedtime. 

Marching Song. 

Happy Thought. 

The Wind. 

Good and Bad Children . 

The Lamplighter.. 

My Bed is a Boat . 

The Swing .. 

Farewell to the Farm .. 

The Land of Story-Books . 

The Gardener.. 

A Boy’s Mother.. 

One, Two, Three. 


. William Brighty Rands 
.Charles and Mary Lamb 

.Gabriel Setoun . 

.Jane Taylor .. 

.Charles and Mary Lamb 
.Charles and Mary Lamb 

.Unknown .. 

.Unknown . 

.Lucy Larcom . 

.Mrs. Carter . 

.Mrs. Carter .. 

.George Cooper . 

.Anna Letitia Barbauld .. 

.Elizabeth Turner . 

.Bayard Taylor . 

.Adelaide O’Keeffe . 

.Mary Tig he . 

.Jane Taylor . 

.Elizabeth Turner . 

.Robert Browning . 

.Elizabeth Turner . 

.Thomas Hood . 

.Rupert Sargent Holland 
•Rupert Sargent Holland 
.Rupert Sargent Holland 
•Rupert Sargent Holland 

■ Rupert Sargent Holland 

• Rupert Sargent Holland 

•Eliza Lee Pollen . 

• Adelaide O’Keeffe . 

■ Laurence Alma-Tadema 

• Unknown . 

• Robert Louis Stevenson 
•Robert Louis Stevenson 

• Robert Louis Stevenson 

• Robert Louis Stevenson 

• Robert Louis Stevenson 

• Robert Louis Stevenson 

• Robert Louis Stevenson 

• Robert Louis Stevenson 

• Robert Louis Stevenson 

• Robert Louis Stevenson 
.Robert Louis Stevenson 
.Robert Louis Stevenson 
.Robert Louis Stevenson 
.Robert Louis Stevenson 

■ Robert Louis Stevenson 
.Robert Louis Stevenson 
.Robert Louis Stevenson 
.Robert Louis Stevenson 
.Robert Louis Stevenson 
.James Whitcomb Riley . 

• H. C. Bunner . 


ii 

Cradle Songs 


Bye, Baby Bunting. Unknown 

Dance My Baby Diddy. ; . Unknown 


89 

89 
.90 

90 

91 

91 

92 
92 

92 

93 

94 
94 
94 

94 

95 

95 

96 

96 

97 
97 

97 

98 
98 

98 

99 
99 
99 

100 

100 

100 

100 

101 
101 

IOI 

IOI 

101 

102 
102 
102 
102 
103 
103 
103 
104 
104 
104 
104 
105 
105 

105 

106 
106 
106 


I08 

I08 
















































































































Table of Contents 


xm 


Rock-a-Bye Baby. 

Hush-a-Bye, Baby, on the Tree-Top 
johnny Shall Have a New Bonnet . 

Sweet and Low . 

Sleep, Sleep, Beauty Bright . 

Sweet Dreams Form a Shade. 

Lullaby, O Lullaby . 

The Mother to Her Infant. 

My Dearest Baby, Go to Sleep .... 

A Cradle Song. 

Sleep, Baby, Sleep. 

Lullaby of an Infant Chief. 

Good-Night . 

Hush Thee, My Babby. 

Sleep, Baby, Sleep . 

When Little Birdie Bye-Bye Goes . 
Golden Slumbers Kiss Your Eyes . 

The Dustman . 

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod. 


Unknown . 108 

Unknown . 108 

Unknown . 108 

Alfred Tennyson . 108 

William Blake . 109 

William Blake . 109 

William Cox Bennett . 109 

Thomas Miller .,.. no 

Thomas Miller . no 

Isaac Watts . in 

George Wither . in 

Walter Scott . in 

Jane Taylor . 112 

Unknown . 112 

Unknown . 112 

Unknown . 112 

Thomas Dekkcr . 112 

Frederick Edward Weatherly... 113 
Eugene Field . 113 


hi 


Nursery Rhymes 


One, Two . 

A Was an Apple-Pie . 

Tom Thumb’s Alphabet . 

One Old Oxford Ox. 

Birthdays . 

Thirty Days Hath September. 

Multiplication is Vexation... 

There Was a Monkey Climbed Up a Tree . 

Sing a Song of Sixpence .. 

When Good King Arthur Ruled This Land 

Poor Old Robinson Crusoe . 

Doctor Faustus Was a Good Man. 

Old King Cole. 

As Tommy Snooks ... 

The Man in the Wilderness. 

Pussicat, Wussicat . 

Jenny Wren . 

Upon a Great Black Horse-ily . 

A Song Set to Five Fingers. 

There Were Two Blackbirds. 

There Was a Little Rabbit Sprig. 

Sing, Sing, What Shall I Sing. 

A Cat Came Fiddling Out of a Barn . 

A Frog He Would a Wooing Go .. 

A Little Cock-Sparrow Sat on a Green Tree 

A Carrion Crow Sat on an Oak. 

Ba, Ba, Black Sheep. 

Bat, Bat, Come Under My Hat. 

Cock a Doodle Do . . 

The Cuckoo is a Fine Bird . 

Diddledy, Diddledy, Dumpty . 

Ding, Dong, Bell . 

Goosey, Goosey Gander . 

Hark, Hark . 


Unknown 
Unknown 
Unknown 
Unknown 
Unknown 
Unknown 
Unknown 
Unknozvn 
Unknown 
Unknozvn 
Unknozvn 
Unknozvn 
Unknozvn 
Unknozvn 
Unknown 
Unknozvn 
Unknozvn 
Unknozvn 
Unknozvn 
Unknown 
Unknown 
Unknozvn 
Unknozvn 
Unknozvn 
Unknozvn 
Unknozvn 
Unknozvn 
Unknown 
Unknozvn 
Unknozvn 
Unknozvn 
Unknozvn 
Unknozvn 
Unknown 


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XIV 


Table of Contents 


Hi! Diddle Diddle. Unknown 

Higglepy, Piggleby . Unknown 

I Had a Little Pony. Unknown 

Lady-Bird . Unknown 

Poor Cock Robin. Unknown 

Why Is Pussy in Bed. Unknown 

Pussy-Cat, Pussy-Cat . Unknown 

Sneel, Snaul. Unknown 

The Fox Jumped Up On a Moonlight Night. Unknown 

The Hart He Loves the High Wood . Unknown 

The Lion and the Unicorn . Unknown 

There Was a Frog Lived in a Well. Unknown 

Four and Twenty Tailors . Unknown 

Hey, My Kitten . Unknown 

Here We Go Up. Unknown 

Fiddle-De-Dee. Unknown 

Pussycat Mole. Unknown 

Young Lambs to Sell. Unknown 

To Market, To Market. Unknown 

Please to Remember. Unknown 

Pease-Pudding Hot. Unknown 

If All the World Were Apple Pie. Unknown 

I Had a Little Nut Tree. Unknown 

Plot-Cross Buns . Unknown 

I’ll Tell You a Story . Unknown 

I Saw a Ship a-Sailing. Unknown 

Is John Smith Within. Unknown 

Mr. East Gave a Feast. Unknown 

Pat-a-Cake . Unknown 

As I Walked by Myself. Unknown 

If I Had as Much Money as I Could Spend. Unknown 

One Misty, Moisty Morning. Unknown 

I Love Sixpence . Unknown 


There Was an Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe.. .Unknown 
There Was an Old Woman Tossed Up in a Basket.. Unknown 
There Was an Old Woman Lived Under a Hill ... .Unknown 
There Was an Old Woman, and What Do You 


Think . Unknown 

Here’s a Poor Widow from Babylon. Unknown 

There Was a Little Man. .Unknown 

Old Mother Hubbard . Unknown 

There Was a Little Man. Unknown 

There Was an Old Woman, as I’ve Heard Tell_ Unknown 

Old Woman, Old Woman . Unknown 

Old Mother Goose. Unknown 

Where Are You Going, My Pretty Maid. Unknown 

What Are Little Boys Made of . Unknown 

See, Saw, Margery Daw . Unknown 

Ride a Cock-Horse to Banbury Cross. Unknoivn 

Polly, Put the Kettle On . Unknown 

Elsie Marley is Grown so Fine. Unknown 

Little Miss Muffit. Unknown 

Pemmy Was a Pretty Girl. Unknoivn 

Pretty Maid. Unknown 

Cross Patch . Unknown 

Little Bo-Peep. Unknoivn 

Oh! Dear! What Can the Matter Be. Unknown 

Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary . Unknown 

Betty Pringle Had a Little Pig. Unknown 


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Table of Contents 


XV 


Mother, May I Go in to Swim . 

Little Polly Flinders. 

Bessy Bell and Mary Gray. 

Little Tom Tucker. 

Little Boy Blue . 

Who Comes Here . 

Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee. 

Tom, Tom . 

Tom He Was the Piper’s Son. 

Three Wise Men of Gotham . 

Barber, Barber, Shave a Pig. 

The Barber Shaved the Mason . 

There Was a Man of Newington. 

There Was a Man in Our Toone. 

There Was a Man and He Went Mad. 

Oh Where and Oh Where is My Little Wee Dog... 

There Was a Crooked Man. 

Taffy Was a Welshman. 

Solomon Grundy . 

Simple Simon . 

Rowlev Powley . 

Robin'Hood... 

This is the House that Jack Built. 

Robin and Richard Were Two Pretty Men . 

Girls and Boys Come Out to Play. 

Plandy Spandy, Jack-a-Dandv . 

Humpty Dumpty. 

Little Jack Horner. 

There Was a Little Boy. 

Jack Sprat . 

Over the Water. 

On Saturday Night .. 

Curly Locks . 

I Had a Little Husband . 

Jack and Jill . 

Gay Go Up. 

London Bridge . 

Come, Let’s to Bed . 

Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. 

Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater . 

Rub-a-Dub-Dub . 

Hickory, Dickory, Dock . 

A Dillar, a Dollar .. 

Hector Protector . 

Blow, Wind, Blow . 

Six Little Mice . 

Bobby Shaftoe’s Gone to Sea. 

The Queen of Hearts . 

Mary’s Lamb . 

When I Was a Bachelor. 

Robin Redbreast. 

Merry Are the Bells. 

I Had a Little Doggy .. 

A Farmer Went Trotting. 

Moon, So Round and Yellow . 

Baby at Play . 

Here Sits the Lord Mayor... 

Grammar in Rhyme.. 

A Plum Pudding . 


Unknown .... 
Unknown .... 
Unknown .... 
Unknown .... 
Unknown .... 
Unknown .... 
Unknown .... 
Unknown .... 
Unknown .... 
Unknown .... 
Unknown .... 

Unknown _ 

Unknown .... 
Unknown .... 
Unknown .... 
Unknown .... 
Unknown .... 

Unknown _ 

Unknown 

Unknown _ 

Unknown 

Unknozvn _ 

Unknown .... 
Unknown 
Unknown .... 

Unknozvn __ 

Unknown .... 
Unknozvn .... 

Unknown _ 

Unknown ...., 

Unknown __ 

Unknozvn ...., 

Unknozvn ._ 

Unknown . 

Unknown . 

Unknozvn _ 

Unknown .... 

Unknown -- 

Unknown .... 
Unknown 

Unknown _ 

Unknozvn . 

Unknozvn 

Unknown _ 

Unknown _ 

Unknown _ 

Unknown .... 
Unknozvn .... 

Unknozvn __ 

Unknown __ 

Unknown __ 

Unknozvn ...., 
Unknown ...., 

Unknozvn _ 

Matthias Barr 

Unknozvn . 

Unknozvn . 

Unknozvn __ 

Unknozvn . 


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XVI 


Table of Contents 


An Egg . Unknown . 

A Pair of Tongs. Unknown . 

The Teeth. Unknown . 

A Bed . Unknown . 

Elizabeth, Lizzy, Betsy and Bess . Unknown . 

Thomas a Tattamus . Unknown . 

A Needle and Thread. Unknown . 

A Cherry . Unknozvn . 

As I Was Going to St. Ives. Unknozvn . 

Two Legs Sat Upon Three Legs . Unknown . 

If Wishes Were Horses . Unknown . 

He That Would Thrive.*.. Unknown . 

A Swarm of Bees in May. Unknown . 

They That Wash on Monday. Unknown . 

Needles and Pins. Unknozvn . 

For Every Evil Under the Sun. Unknozvn . 

For Want of a Nail . Unknown . 

A Sunshiny Shower. Unknozvn . 

Rain Before Seven. Unknown . 

March Winds and April Showers. Unknozvn . 

Evening Red and Morning Gray. Unknozvn . 

Rainbow at Night. Unknown . 

See-Saw Sacradown . Unknown . 

Dance, Little Baby. Unknozvn . 

Hey Diddle, Dinkety . Unknown . 

There Was a Little Nobby Colt . Unknown . 

Pussy Sits Beside the Fire. Unknozvn . 

Jack Horner. Unknown . 

Come Hither, Little Puppy-Dog. Unknown . 

Peter White. Unknown . 

The Man in the Moon . Unknown . 

Brave News is Come . Unknown . 

There Was an Old Man. Unknozvn . 

There Was a Chandler. Unknozvn . 

Tree on the Hill. Unknozvn . 

When the Wind Is in the East. Unknown . 

Hearts, Like Doors. Unknozvn . 

Counting Out. Unknozvn . 

A Tea-Party. Kate Greenaway 

Around the World. Kate Greenaway 

A Happy Child . Kate Greenaway 

The Lamb. Kate Greenaway 


14c 

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145 
145 


IV 

Fairy Land 


The Fairies. William Allingham .. 

The Light Hearted Fairy. Unknown . 

Fairyland . Edgar Allan Poe . 

A Fairy in Armor. Joseph Rodman Drake 

The Life of a Fairy. Unknozvn . 

Oh! Where Do Fairies Hide Their Heads?. Thomas Haynes Bayly 

The Fountain of the Fairies . Robert Southey ...... 

Fairy Song.. John Keats . 

By the Moon We Sport and Play. John Lyly . 

The Mountain Sprite. Thomas Moore . 

A Charm. Robert Herrick . 


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Table of Contents 


xvii 


Another Charm. 

Queen Mab. 

Queen Mab. 

Queen Mab’s Chariot .. 

The Beggar, to Mab the Fairy Queen 

You Spotted Snakes . 

Oberon’s Feast .. 

The Palace of the Fairies. 

The Fairy Boy. 

The Fairy Tempter . 

The Arming of Pigwiggen. 

Water-Lilies. 

The Hag . 

The Fairies of the Caldon-Low 

The Fairy Folk. 

Fairies’ Recall. 


Robert Herrick . 

Ben Jonson . 

William Shakespeare ... 

Michael Drayton . 

Robert Herrick .. 

William Shakespeare ... 

Robert Herrick . 

Michael Drayton . 

Samuel Rover .. 

Samuel Rover . 

Michael Drayton . 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans 

Robert Herrick . 

Mary Howitt . 

Robert Bird . 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans 


150 

150 

150 

151 

151 

152 

152 

153 
153 

153 

154 

154 

155 
155 
157 
157 


v 

Fables and Riddles 


Showing How the Cavern Followed the Hut’s Ad- 


The 


The Dog of Reflection .., 

The Milkmaid . 

The Lion and the Mouse 


A Bo< 
A Rid 
A Rid 
A. B. 


Peter Piper Picked a Peck . 
When a Twister a Twisting 


John Hookham Frere . 

. 158 

John Hookham Frere . 

. 158 

John Hookham Frere . 

. 159 

John Hookham Frere . 

. 159 

John Hookham Frere . 

. 159 

John Hookham Frere . 

. 160 

Charles and Mary Ramb . . . 


William Cow per . 

. 161 

William Cowper . 

. 161 

Ralph Waldo Emerson .... 


Samuel Taylor Coleridge .. 


Unknown . 


William Wordsivorth 

r-: . . . 164 

William Cozvpcr . 

. 164 

Robert Southey . 

. 165 

lA’dia Maria Child . 

. 166 

John Gay . 

. 168 

John Gay . 


John Gay . 


Jeffreys Taylor . 


Jeffreys Taylor . 

. 170 

Jeffreys Taylor . 

. 171 

Jeffreys Taylor . 


John Keats . 


Hannah More . 

. 173 

Catherine Maria Fanshazve 

. 173 

Jonathan Swift . 

. 173 

Eliza Cook . 

. 174 

Unknown . 

. 174 

Rydia Huntly Sigourney... 

. T 74 

Jane Taylor . 

. 175 

William Robert Spencer ... 

. 176 

William Cowper . 

. 177 

Unknown . 

. 178 

Unknown . 

. 178 

Unknown . 

. 178 









































































































XV1U 


Table of Contents 



The Seasons 


Hark, Hark the Lark . 

Good Morning. 

A Spring Lilt . 

The Morning Mist. 

Noontide . 

Evening . 

Evening Song . 

Night in the Desert. 

Night . 

Good-Night . 

Hymn to the Night. 

Hymn to the North Star. 

The vStars . 

The Light of Stars . 

The Gladness of Nature . 

Joy of Life . 

The Cloud. 

The Water! The Water! . 

The Fountain. 

The Cataract of Lodore . 

The Brook .. 

Signs of Rain . 

Rain in Summer . 

A Weather Rule. 

Sunshine After a Shower. 

A Fine Day. 

The Sun . 

The Brook in Winter. 

My Heart Leaps Up When I Behold 

The Whirl-Blast . 

The Snowstorm. 

Up in the Morning Early. 

The Months. 

An Apple Orchard in the Spring ... 

Spring . 

The Procession of the Flowers. 

Now that Winter’s Gone. 

March. 

Spring . 

Written in March . 

The Spring Walk. 

The New Moon . 

Song On a May Morning. 

A Summer Invocation . 

Autumn . 

September. 

December . 

Death of the Old Year. 

The Winter Fire . 

When Icicles Hang By the Wall 

The Wind. 

The North-East Wind . 

The Wind in a Frolic. 

Which Way Does the Wind Blow . 


, William Shakespeare . 179 

, Joanna Baillie . 179 

,Unknovon . 179 

Robert Southey . 180 

John Keble . 180 

George Gordon Byron . 180 

John Fletcher . 180 

Robert Southey . 181 

.William Blake . 181 

Joanna Baillie . 182 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow'.. 182 

William Cullen Bryant . 182 

Barry Cornwall . 183 

.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.. 184 

, William Cullen Bryant . 184 

Mary Russell M it ford . 185 

Percy Bysshe Shelley . 185 

William Motherwell . 186 

James Russell Lowell . 187 

Robert Southey . 187 

Alfred Tennyson . 189 

Edzvard Jenner . 189 

Henry Wadszvorth Longfellow.. 190 

Unknown . 191 

Thomas Wart on . 191 

Michael Drayton . 191 

Thomas Miller . 191 

James Russell Lozuell . 192 

William Wordsworth -A- 192 

William Wordsworth ... . . 193 

Ralph Waldo Emerson . 193 

Robert Burns . 193 

Sara Coleridge . 194 

William Martin . 194 

Thomas Nashe . 195 

Sydney Dobell . 195 

Thomas Carew . 195 

William Cullen Bryant . 196 

William Blake . 196 

William Wordsworth ..-. ... 197 

Thomas Miller . 197 

William Cullen Bryant . 108 

John Milton . 198 

William Cox Bennett . 198 

Percy Bysshe Shelley . 198 

Mary Hozvitt . 199 

John Keats . 199 

Alfred Tennyson . 200 

Mary Hozvitt . 200 

William Shakespeare . 201 

Letitia Elizabeth London .201 

Charles Kingsley . 201 

William Hozvitt .. 202 

Lucy Aik in . 203 










































































































Table of Contents 


XIX 


Winter Night. 

Wild Winds . 

The Frost. 

Winter . 

Old Winter . 

Midwinter . 

When the Frost Is On the Punkin 


Mary Frances Butts . 203 

Mary Frances Butts . 203 

Hannah Flagg Gould . 204 

Edmund Spenser .. 204 

Thomas Noel . 205 

John Townsend Trowbridge _205 

James Whitcomb Riley . 206 


VII 

Fields and Woods 


The Barley-Mowers’ Song . 

Cornfields . 

The Corn Song. 

The Hock-Cart.. 

A Boy’s Song . 

Bathing . 

Under the Greenwood Tree. 

The Shepherd . 

Shepherd Boy’s Song . 

Lines from the Lady of the Lake 

Highland Cattle . 

The Shepherd in Winter. 

The Blossom . 

I Stood Tiptoe Upon a Little Hill 

To Meadows . 

A Garden . 

Gardening. 

Going a-Maying . 

Violets . 

Green Things Growing. 

Sweet Peas . 

A Rosebud . 

To a Primrose . 

Wishing. 

Buttercups and Daisies. 

Wild Rose . 

Field Flowers . 

Almond Blossom. 

The Bluebell . 

The Grass . 

To an Early Primrose. 

To the Small Celandine. 

Mine Host of the “ Golden Apple ” 

To a Mountain Daisy. 

Narcissus. 

The Daisy. 

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud.... 

To Daffodils... 

To the Fringed Gentian. 

Baby Seed Song. 

Orpheus . 

The Fate of the Oak. 

The Oak and the Beech. 

Bind-Weed . 

A Song of Clover. 


.Mary Howitt . 

.Mary Howitt . 

.John Greenleaf Whittier 

.Robert Herrick . 

.James Hogg . 

.John Keble . 

. William Shakespeare ... 

.William Blake . 

.John Bunyan . 

. Walter Scott . 

.Dinah Maria Mulock ... 

.Walter Scott . 

.William Blake . 

.John Keats . 

.Robert Herrick . 

.Percy Bysshe Shelley ... 

.John Keble . 

.Robert Herrick . 

.Robert Herrick . 

.Dinah Maria Mulock ... 

.John Keats . 

.Robert Burns . 

.John Clare . 

.William A llingham . 

.Mary Hozvitt . 

. William A llingham _ 

.Thomas Campbell . 

.Edwin Arnold . 

.Emily Bronte . 

.Emily Dickinson . 

.Henry Kirke White _ 

. William Wordsworth .V 

.Thomas Westzvood . 

.Robert Burns . 

.William Cowper . 

.James Montgomery .... 

. William Wordszvortli .. 

.Robert Herrick . 

.William Cullen Bryant . 

.Edith Nesbit . 

.William Shakespeare ... 

.Barry Cornwall . 

.Thomas Love Peacock . 

.Susan Coolidge . 

A Saxe Holm ". 


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207 

208 

209 

209 

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211 

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XX 


Table of Contents 


The White Anemone. 

Flowers . 

The Rose. 

The Rhodora . 

The Death of the Flowers. 

Hie Away. 

Hunting Song. 

A Hunting We Will Go. 

The Hunter’s Song. 

The Hunt is Up. 

Up! Up S Ye Dames and Lasses Gay. 
A Hawking Party in the Olden Time 


Owen Meredith . 225 

Thomas Hood . 226 

William Broivne . 226 

Ralph Waldo Emerson . 226 

William Cullen Bryant . 227 

Walter Scott . 227 

Walter Scott . 228 

Henry Fielding . 228 

Barry Cornzvall . 228 

Unknown . 229 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge . 229 

Mary Howitt .230 


VIII 

Home 


Home Song .. 

The Echoing Green. 

A Wish . 

Pleasant Things. 

A Ternarie of Littles. 

Hame, Hame, Hame . 

Home, Sweet Home!. 

His Grange, or Private Wealth 
The Old Clock on the Stairs 

My Old Kentucky Home. 

The Ingle-Side . 

The Old Arm-Chair . 

Song of the Fire. 

A Ceremony for Candlemas Day 

Old Christmas.. 

Christmas in the Olden Time.... 

Ceremonies for Christmas. 

The Deserted Village . 

Father Is Coming. 

Baby May. 

My Early Home.. 

The Cane-Bottomed Chai*r. 

The Blind Highland Boy. 

Heart’s Content . 

The Auld House. 

Love Will F'ind Out the Way.... 

The Country Parson. 

The Village Blacksmith . 


, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow' .. 231 

, William Blake . 231 

Samuel Rogers . 231 

George Gordon Byron . 232 

Robert Herrick . 232 

Allan Cunningham . 232 

John Howard Payne . 233 

Robert Herrick . 233 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow .. 234 

Stephen Collins Foster . 235 

Hew Ainslee . 235 

Eliza Cook . 236 

Edivard Fitzgerald . 236 

Robert Herrick . 237 

Mary Howitt . 237 

Walter Scott . 238 

Robert Herrick . 239 

Oliver Goldsmith . 239 

Mary Hoivitt . 240 

William Cox Bennett . 241 

John Clare . 241 

William Makepeace Thackeray .. 242 

William Wordsw'orth . ?VTr . 243 

Unknown . 243 

Carolina Nairne . 244 

Unknown . 245 

Oliver Goldsmith . 245 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 246 


IX 

Insects, Birds, and Beasts 


To an Insect. 

The Humble-Bee. 

To a Mouse. 

The Snail . 

The Housekeeper.. 

To the Grasshopper and the Cricket 
The Grasshopper. 


Oliver Wendell Holmes . 248 

Ralph Waldo Emerson . 248 

Robert Burns . 249 

William Cow per . 250 

Charles Lamb . 250 

Leigh Hunt . 251 

Abraham Corvley . 251 




























































































XXI 


Table of Contents 


The Grasshopper and the Cricket. 

The Cricket . 

To a Cricket. 

The Butterfly’s First Flight. 

To a Butterfly. 

To a Butterfly. 

The Bee. 

White Butterflies . 

Where the Bee Sucks. 

Song of the Bees. 

To a Bee. 

To a Fly. 

Mister Fly . 

The Fly. 

The True Story of Web-Spinner. 

My Thrush. 

The Eagle. 

The Nautilus . 

The Kitten at Play . 

The Retired Cat . 

On a Spaniel Called “ Beau ” Killing a Young Bird 

Beau’s Reply .. 

The Little Beach-Bird. 

An Epitaph. 

Chimney Swallows. 

The Wounded Hare. 

Child’s Talk in April. 

The Jackdaw. 

The Squirrel . 

The Blood Horse. 

The O’Lincon Family. 

The Lion. 

The Tiger. 

The Girl and Her Fawn. 

The Kid . 

Sing On, Blithe Bird. 

The Bird. 

The Lark and the Nightingale. 

The Skylark. 

To a Skylark. 

The Blackbird . 

My Doves. 

I Had a Dove . 

Robin Redbreast. 

To a Hedge-Sparrow. 

The Nightingale . 

Ode to the Cuckoo. 

To the Cuckoo . 

The Birds of Passage. 

The First Swallow . 

To a Swallow, Building Under Our Eaves. 

An Epitaph on a Robin Redbreast. 

The Redbreast Chasing a Butterfly. 

The Horned Owl . 

The Owl . 

The Green Linnet . 

The Pewee ... 

Soliloquy of a Water-Wagtail . 

The Throstle . 


John Keats . 251 

, William Cow per . 252 

William Cox Bennett . 252 

Unknown . 252 

William Wordsworth .. rrr-n-... 253 

William Wordsworth .. .. 253 

Emily Dickinson . 253 

Algernon Charles Swinburne _ 254 

William Shakespeare . 254 

Hannah Flagg Gould . 254 

Robert Southey . 254 

William Oldys . 255 

Thomas Miller . 255 

William Blake . 255 

Mary Howitt . 256 

Mortimer Collins . 257 

Alfred Tennyson .258 

Charlotte Smith . 258 

William Wordsworth .. tttt: .... 258 

William Cowper . 259 

William Cowper . 260 

William Cowper . 260 

Richard Henry Dana . 261 

William Cowper . 261 

Horatio Nelson Powers . 261 

Robert Burns . 262 

Christina Georgina Rossetti .263 

William Coze per . 264 

Bernard Barton . 264 

Barry Cornwall . 264 ' 

Wilson Flagg . 265 

Mary Howitt . 265 

William Blake . 266 

Andrew Marvell . 266 

William Shensto.ne . 267 

William Motherwell . 267 

William Allingham . 267 

Hartley Coleridge . 268 

James Hogg . 268 

Percy Bysshe Shelley . 269 

Alfred Tennyson . 270 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning . 271 

John Keats . 271 

William Allingham ...271 

Unknozvn . 272 

Richard Barn fie Id . 272 

Michael Bruce . 272 

William Wordsworth ... r: .T_273 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans . 273 

Charlotte Smith . 274 

Jane Welsh Carlyle . 274 

Samuel Rogers . 275 

William Wordszvorth . 275 

Barry Cornzvall . 276 

Alfred Tennyson . 276 

William Wordszvorth .. ... .T 7 T.. 277 

John Townsend Trowbridge . 277 

James Montgomery . 278 

Alfred Tennyson . 279 





















































































































XXII 


Table of Contents 


The Parrot. 

The Bobolinks. 

The Dying Swan. 

To an Oriole. 

The Humming-Bird . 

Wild Geese. 

The Chaffinch’s Nest at Sea 

To a Water Fowl. 

The Sea-Mew . 

The Stormy Petrel . 

Chanticleer . 


Thomas Campbell . 

Christopher Pearse Cranch. 

A If red T ennyson . 

Edgar Fawcett . 

Mary Howitt . 

Frederick Peterson . 

William Cow per . 

William Cullen Bryant . 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning 

Barry Cornwall . 

Katharine Tynan Hinkson. 


279 

280 

281 

281 

282 

282 

283 

284 

284 

285 
285 


x 

Humorous Verse 


The Jovial Welshmen .. 

Captain Reece . 

An Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog.. 
Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat..... 

The Jumblies . 

The Pobble Who Has No Toes. 

The Author of the “Pobble”. 

Bell’s Dream . 

Little Billee . 

The Pied Piper of Hamelin. 

The Lobster and the Maid . 

The Jackdaw of Rheims . 

A Tragic Story. 

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat. 

The Priest and the Mulberry-Tree. 

The Walrus and the Carpenter. 

Jabberwocky. 

The Gardener’s Song . 

The Diverting History of John Gilpin ... 
The Courtship of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo 

Five Nonsense Verses. 

The Raggedy Man. 

The Man in the Moon . 

Our Hired Girl. 

Little Orphant Annie . 

Seem’ Things . 

Jest ’Fore Christmas.i. 


Unknown . 

William Schwenck Gilbert . 

Oliver Goldsmith . 

Thomas Gray . 

Edward Lear . 

Edward Lear . 

Edward Lear . 

Frederick Edward Weatherly... 
William Makepeace Thackeray.. 

Robert Browning . 

Frederick Edward Weatherly... 

Richard Harris Barham . 

William Makepeace Thackeray 

Edward Lear . 

Thomas Love Peacock . 

Lewis Carroll . 

Lezeis Carroll . 

Lezuis Carroll . 

William Cowper . 

Edzvard Lear . 

Edward Lear . 

James Whitcomb Riley...U . 

James Whitcomb Riley ....?. 

James Whitcomb Riley... .u . 

James Whitcomb Riley . 

Eugene Field ... f . 

Eugene Field . 1 . 


286 

286 

288 

288 

289 

290 

291 
291 
~93 

-93 

299 

-99 

302 

302 

303 

303 

305 

305 

306 
310 
3i 1 
312 

312 

3 1 3 
3 M 

315 

316 


XI 


Poems of Patriotism and History 


The Heritage. 

To England . 

The Fatherland. 

Ready, Ay, Ready. 

Agincourt . 

The Traveller’s Return 

My Native Land. 

How Sleep the Brave . 


James Russell Lozvell ... 
George Henry Boker .... 
James Russell Lowell.... 
Herman Charles Merivale 

Unknown . 

Robert Southey . 

Walter Scott . 

William Collins . 


318 

319 

319 

320 
320 

320 

321 
321 


























































































Table of Contents 


XXIII 


bor A’ That, and A’ That. Robert Burns . 321 

Our Mother Tongue . ..Lord Houghton . 322 

The Isles of Greece. George Gordon Byron . 322 

England I. William Shakespeare . 322 

England II. William Shakespeare . 323 

The Destruction of Sennacherib. George Gordon Byron . 323 

Saxon Grit . Robert Collyer . 323 

Home Thoughts from Abroad. Robert Browning . 325 

Home Thoughts from the Sea. Robert Browning . 320 

Ivry. Thomas Babington Macaulay .... 326 

Ye Mariners of England... Thomas Campbell . 327 

England, My England. William Ernest Henley . 328 

Boadicea . William Cowper . 329 

Columbus. Lydia Huntly Sigourney . 329 

The Song of the Camp. Bayard Taylor . 330 

The Armada . Thomas Babington Macaulay .... 330 

The Burial of Sir John Moore. Charles Wolfe .. 332 

My Land. Thomas Osborne Davis . 333 

Casabianca . Felicia Dorothea Hemails . 333 

Ticonderoga . V. B. Wilson . 334 

The Battle of the Baltic. Thomas Campbell . 335 

Washington . James Russell Lowell . 336 

The Charge of the Light Brigade. Alfred Tennyson . 336 

The Eve of the Battle of Waterloo. George Gordon Byron . 337 

The “Revenge” . Alfred Tennyson . 339 

The Bluebells of Scotland. Unknown . 341 

Kearny at Seven Pines. Edmund Clarence Stedman . 341 

Bruce to His Army. Robert Burns . 342 

My Heart’s in the Highlands. Robert Burns . 343 

The Word of God to Leyden Came. Jeremiah Eames Rankin . 343 

The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers. Felicia Dorothea Hemans . 344 

Pocahontas . William Makepeace Thackeray.. 344 

Indian Names . Lydia Huntly Sigourney . 345 

The Star-Spangled Banner. Francis Scott Key . 345 

The American Flag. Joseph Rodman Drake . 346 

Concord Hymn . Ralph Waldo Emerson . 347 

O Captain! My Captain! . Walt Whitman . 347 

America. Samuel Francis Smith . 347 

Battle-Hymn of the Republic . Julia Ward Howe . 348 

Bonnie Dundee . Walter Scott . 348 

The Battle of Hohenlinden . Thomas Campbell . 349 

Molly Maguire at Monmouth . William Collins . 350 

Incident of the French Camp . Robert Browning . 351 

The Minstrel-Boy. Thomas Moore ...352 

The Splendour Falls on Castle Walls. Alfred Tennyson . 352 

How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to 

Aix . Robert Browning . 352 

Monterey. Charles Fenno Hoffman . 354 

The Sea. Barry Cornwall . 354 

To Sea! To Sea!. Thomas Lovell Beddoes . 355 

The Leak in the Dike. Phoebe Cary . 355 

The Northern Seas. William Howitt . 357 

Old Ironsides. Oliver Wendell Holmes . 358 

Barbara Frietchie. John Greenleaf Whittier . 3^8 

Brown of Ossawatomie. John Greenleaf Whittier . 360 

Windlass Song . William Allingham . 360 

A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea. Allan Cunningham . 361 

The Captain Stood on the Carronade. Frederick Marryat . 361 

Gibraltar . Wilfred Scawen Blunt . 362 



















































































































XXIV 


Table of Contents 


The Tar for All Weathers. 

Sheridan’s Ride . 

Song of Sherman’s March to the Sea 
Song of the Emigrants in Bermudas. 

Marching Through Georgia. 

The Cavalier’s Song . 


Charles Dihden . 362 

Thomas Buchanan Read . 363 

Samuel Hawkins Marshall Byers 364 

Andrew Marvell . 365 

Henry Clay Work . 365 

William Motherwell .366 


XII 


Ballads 


The Babes in the Wood . 

The Singing Leaves. 

The Blind Beggar’s Daughter of Bethnal Green 

King Edwin’s Feast . 

Rodney’s Ride. 

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 

Lord Lovel. 

Solomon and the Bees. 

The Founding of Bolton Priory. 

Mary Ambree . 

The Lay of the Last Minstrel. 

Lochinvar . 

The Battle of Blenheim . 

The Palmer ... 

The Inchcape Rock . 

The Wreck of the Hesperus. 

Sir Humphrey Gilbert . 

Father William . 

Ballad of Earl Haldan’s Daughter. 

Beth Gelert. 

The Well of St. Keyne. 

Lucy and Colin.. 

Edwin and Angelina . 

The Bailiff’s Daughter of Islington.. 

Allan Water. 

The Romance of the Swan’s Nest .. 

Herve Riel .. 

King Canute.. 

Alice Fell . 

Lucy Gray. 

The Seven Sisters .. 

The Long White Seam . 

Jock of Hazeldean .. 

The Lament of the Border Widow.. 

The Lord of Burleigh. 

The Lady of Shalott .. 

Sir Galahad . 

Fair Helen of Kirconnel. 

The Linnet in the Rocky Dells . 

Barbara Allen’s Cruelty. 

Rosabelle. 

Skipper Ireson’s Ride. 

La Belle Dame Sans Merci. 

Annie Laurie .. 

Lord Ullin’s Daughter.. 

Jaffar . 


. Unknown . 

James Russell Rowell . 

.Unknozvn . 

John W. Chadwick . 

.Elbridge S. Brooks . 

.Samuel Taylor Coleridge . 

. Unknown . 

.John Godfrey Saxe . 

. William Wordsworth ttt. 

. Unknown . 

. Walter Scott . 

. Walter Scott . 

.Robert Southey . 

.Walter Scott . 

.Robert Southey . 

.Henry Wadsivorth Longfellow.. 
.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.. 

.Robert Southey . 

.Charles Kingsley . 

.William Robert Spencer . 

.Robert Southey . 

,Thomas Tick ell . 

.Oliver Goldsmith . 

,Unknown . 

.Matthew Gregory Lewis . 

Elisabeth Barrett Browning . 

.Robert Browning . 

William Makepeace Thackeray.. 

■William Wordsworth . 

. William Wordsworth ... L- J.... 

.William Wordsworth . .r. 

Jean Ingelow . 

Walter Scott . 

Unknown . 

Alfred Tennyson . 

Alfred Tennyson . 

Alfred Tennyson . 

Unknown . 

Emily Bronte . 

Unknozvn . 

■ Walter Scott . 

John Greenleaf Whittier . 

■John Keats . 

William Douglas of Fleugland.. 
Thomas Campbell . 

■ Leigh Hunt . 


367 

369 

37 i 

377 

378 

379 

388 

389 

391 

391 

393 

395 

396 

397 

397 

398 

400 

401 

401 

402 

403 

404 

405 

407 

408 

408 

409 
411 

413 

414 

415 

416 

416 

417 

417 

418 

421 

422 

422 

423 

424 

425 

426 

427 

428 
428 





































































































Table of Contents 


XXV 


The Glove and the Lions. 

The Outlaw’s Song. 

King John and the Abbot of Canterbury 


Leigh Hunt . 429 

Joanna Baillie . 430 

Unknown . 430 


XIII 

Girlhood 

The Names. Charles Lamb .434 

To a Child of Noble Birth. Matthew Prior . 434 

Cherry Ripe. Robert Herrick . 434 

Winny . William Allingham . 434 

Lucy’s Birthday. William Makepeace Thackeray.. 435 

To a Little Girl. Helen Parry Eden .435 

To Helen . Edgar Allan Poe . 435 

Rose Aylmer . Walter Savage Landor . 436 

Have You Seen a Bright Lily Grow. Ben Jonson . 436 

To Diana . Ben Jonson . 436 

Who Is Sylvia . William Shakespeare . 436 

The Beggar Maid . Alfred Tennyson . 436 

She Was a Phantom of Delight . William Wordszuorth . n- _437 

She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways. William Wordsworth .. rr . ffrr. 437 

Maud . Alfred Tennyson . rAvr:. 437 

The Solitary Reaper . William Wordsworth ... 438 

The May Queen . Alfred Tennyson . 438 

New Year’s Eve. Alfred Tennyson . 439 

Conclusion to the May Queen and New Year’s E \t. .Alfred Tennyson .441 

Hester . Charles Lamb . 442 

A Portrait . Elizabeth Barrett Browning .443 

The Sands of Dee. Charles Kingsley . 444 

Lady Clare. Alfred Tennyson . 444 

Proud Maisie . Walter Scott . 446 

Annabelle Lee .. Edgar Allan Poe . 446 

My Peggy. Allan Ramsay . 446 

The Reverie of Poor Susan. William Wordsworth .77. . . . 77 .. 447 

The Gypsy Girl. Henry Alford . 447 

Ruth . Thomas Hood . 447 

O Mally’s Meek, Mally’s Sweet. Robert Burns . 448 

Lucy . William Wordsworth . t^-rrrrr?.. 448 

Chloe . Robert Burns . 449 

My Nannie’s Awa’ . Robert Burns . 449 

I Love My Jean. Robert Burns . 449 

Marien Lee . Mary Hozvitt . 450 

To Mistress Margaret Hussey. John Skelton . 450 

She Walks in Beauty. 77777 . George Gordon Byron . 450 

The Night-Piece. Robert Herrick . 451 

Phyllis . William Drummond . 451 

On the Birthday of a Young Lady. William Whitehead . 451 

Julia . Robert Herrick . 451 

A Farewell. Charles Kingsley . 452 


XIV 

Poems of Praise 

Morning Hymn. Thomas Ken . 453 

Morning Hymn. Cecil Frances Alexander . 453 

Hymn for Christmas. Felicia Dorothea Hemans . 454 




































































































XXVI 


Table of Contents 


A Child’s Morning Prayer . Mary Lundie Duncan .454 

Prayers . Flora Hastings .454 

A Child’s Hymn of Praise . Jane 7 ay lor . 454 

A Child’s Grace . Robert Herrick . 455 

The Creation . Cecil Frances Alexander .455 

The Son of God Goes Forth to War. Reginald Heber . 455 

The Spacious Firmament on High . Joseph Addison .. 456 

Rock of Ages . Augustus Montague Toplady _ 456 

A Child’s Thought of God. Elizabeth Barrett Browning -456 

A Tittle Lamb Went Straying. Albert Midlane . 457 

There’s a Friend for Little Children. Albert Midlane . 457 

Gentle Jesus, Meek and Mild . Charles Wesley . 458 

Everywhere, Everywhere Christmas To-Night. Phillips Brooks . 458 

O Little Town of Bethlehem .. Phillip Brooks . 459 

Holy, Holy, Holy . Reginald Heber . 459 

Lo, The Lilies of the Field. Reginald Iieber . 460 

A Christmas Hymn . Alfred Domett . 460 

The Bird Let Loose in Eastern Skies. 71 iomas Moore . 461 

The Lost Sheep. Elizabeth Cecilia Clephane . 461 

Chartless . Emily Dickinson . 462 

The Vision of Belshazzar . George Gordon Byron . 462 

St. Agnes’ Eve. Alfred Tennyson . 462 

Christmas Carol . Unknown . 463 

God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen . Dinah Maria Mulock . 463 

While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night.. Nahum Tate . 464 

Brightest and Best of the Sons of the Morning. Reginald Heber . 464 

A Hymn for Christmas Day. Thomas Chatterton . 464 

An Ode on the Birth of Our Saviour. Robert Herrick . 465 

St. Francis’ Sermon to the Birds. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 465 

Once in Royal David’s City. Cecil Frances Alexander . 466 

Good King Wenceslas . John Neal . 466 

I Saw Three Ships . Unknown . 467 

Onward, Christian Soldiers. Sabine Baring-Gould . 467 

From Greenland’s Icy Mountains. Reginald Heber . 468 

A Thanksgiving to God for His House. Robert Herrick . 468 

Saw Ye Never in the Meadows . Cecil Frances Alexander .469 

The Burial of Moses . Cecil Frances Alexander . 469 

What Christ Said. George Macdonald . 470 

Evening Song . Cecil Frances Alexander .471 

Now the Day is Over . Sabine Baring-Gould . 471 

To His Saviour, a Child. Robert Herrick . 472 

A Child’s Prayer . M. Betham Edivards . 472 

A Child’s Evening Prayer. Mary Eundie Duncan .. 4.72 

Child’s Evening Prayer. Samuel Taylor Coleridge . 473 

Evening Hymn . Cecil Frances Alexander .473 


The Piper. 

I Remember. 

The Boy in the Wilderness 

My Lost Youth . 

The Arrow and the Song . 

Laughing Song . 

Daffy-Down-Dilly . 


XV 

Miscellaneous 


William Blake . 474 

Thomas Hood . 474 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge .474 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow .. 475 
Henry Wadsworth I^ongfellow .. 476 

William Blake . 476 

Anna R. Warner . 477 




































































































Table of Contents 


xxvu 


Sir Launfal and the Leper. 

Nurse’s Song... 

Seven Times Two . 

The Shepherd to His Love. 

Meg Merrilies . 

The Songs of Autolycus. 

The Rain it Raineth Every Day. 

Come Unto These Yellow Sands. 

The Forsaken Merman . 

The Raven . 

The Lotus-Eaters. 

The Three Fishers . 

The Hidden Mermaids. 

How Sweet 1 Roamed . 

On Another’s Sorrow. 

The Lost Playmate. 

Holy Thursday. 

On First Looking Into Chapman’s Homer .. 

John Anderson . 

The Miller of the Dee. 

Answer to a Child’s Question . 

The Night Has a Thousand Eyes . 

Forbearance .. 

The Character of a Happy Life. 

The Noble Nature . 

Excelsior. 

Woodman, Spare that Tree . 

Contentment . 

The Boy and the Angel . 

Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel. 

Wolsey. 

Mercy. 

Pack, Clouds, Away. 

Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead .... 

The Cavalier’s Escape. 

The Blind Men and the Elephant. 

The Earth and Man . 

The Orphan’s Song. 

Young and Old. 

The Pilgrim . 

The Dreamer . 

If I Had But Two Little Wings. 

The Chambered Nautilus . . ... , -rr rr 

Lines on the Mermaid Tavern . 

The Bells. 

Ulysses (Extracts) . 

Kubla Khan. 

The Haunted Palace . 

L’Allegro (Extracts) . 

Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind . 

Ode on Solitude. 

O For a Moon to Light Me Home. 

Peace Be Around Thee. 

Oft in the Stilly Night. 

Full Fathom Five . 

The Deacon’s Masterpiece, or the Wonderful 

Hoss Shay ” . 

Old Grimes. 

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard- 


. James Russell Lowell . 477 

. William Blake . 478 

. Jean Inge low . 478 

. Christopher Marlowe . 479 

. John Keats . 479 

. William Shakespeare . 480 

. William Shakespeare . 480 

. William Shakespeare . 481 

. Matthew Arnold . 481 

. Edgar Allan Poe . 483 

. Alfred Tennyson . 485 

. Charles Kingsley . 486 

.“ Walter Ramal ” . :... 487 

. William Blake . 487 

. William Blake . 487 

.“ Walter Ramal” . 488 

. William Blake . 488 

. John Keats . 489 

. Robert Burns . 489 

. Charles Mackay . 489 

. Samuel Taylor Coleridge .490 

. Francis William Bourdillon _ 490 

. Ralph Waldo Emerson .490 

. Henry Wotton . 490 

. Ben Jonson . 491 

. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow .. 491 

. George Pope Morris . 492 

. Edward Dyer . 492 

. Robert Browning . 493 

. Leigh Hunt .494 

. William Shakespeare . 494 

. William Shakespeare . 495 

. Thomas Heywood . 495 

. Alfred Tennyson .496 

. Walter Thornbury . 496 

. John Godfrey Saxe . 497 

. Stopford Augustus Brooke . 497 

. Sydney Dobell . 408 

. Charles Kingsley .498 

. John Bunyan .498 

." Walter Ramal” . 499 

. Samuel Taylor Coleridge . 499 

.... r. Oliver Wendell Holmes . 499 

. John Keats . 500 

. Edgar Allan Poe . 500 

. Alfred Tennyson . 502 

. Samuel Taylor Coleridge . 502 

. Edgar Allan Poe . 503 

. John Milton . 5°4 

. William Shakespeare . 5°5 

. Alexander Pope . 506 

. “Walter Ramal” . 506 

. Thomas Moore . 5°6 

. Thomas Moore . 5°7 

. William Shakespeare . 507 

“ One- 

. Oliver Wendell Holmes . 507 

. Albert Gorton Greene . 509 

. Thomas Gray . 510 





















































































































xxviii 


Table of Contents 


Break, Break, Break. 

A Farewell. 

Ring Out Wild Bells . 

The World is Too Much With Us. 

Sonnet Composed Upon Westminster Bridge 

The Invitation. 

A Thing of Beauty. 

Written at an Inn at Henley. 

The Dearest Poets., 

Twilight at Sea. 

Nature . 

Spring Song in the City. 

In City Streets . 

The Song My Paddle Sings . 

The Quiet Life .. 

A Strip of Blue. 

The Country Faith. 

Shakespeare .. 

On the Portrait of Shakespeare. 

Requiem . 


Alfred Tennyson .... 

Alfred Tennyson _ 

Alfred Tennyson .... 
William Wordsworth 
William Wordszvorth .. 
Percy Bysshe Shelley .. 

John Keats . 

William Slienstone _ 

Leigh Hunt . 

Amelia Coppuck Welby 
Henry David Thorcau 
Robert Buchanan . 

Ada Smith . 

E. Pauline Johnson 
William Byrd .... 

Lucy Larcom . 

Norman Gale . 

Matthew Arnold .. 

Ben Jonson . 

Robert Louis Stevenson 











































List of Illustrations 


A-list’nin’ to the witch-tales ’at Annie tells about. Frontispiece 

Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan !. Facing p. 82 

A little green pulpit stuck in the ground. “ “ 98 

O wind, a-blowing all day long. “ “ 104 

He put her in a pumpkin shell 

And there he kept her very well. “ “ 136 

Leaping and flashing, 

From morn till night!. “ “ 186 

See the kitten on the wall, 

Sporting with the leaves that fall. “ “ 258 

But jest ’fore Christmas I’m as good as I kin be!. “ “ 316 










* 



POEMS FOR CHILDREN 













































































' : 1 




























’ 





































PART I 


I 

Rhymes for Little Ones 


EARLY RISING. 

Get up, little sister: the morning is 
bright, 

And the birds are all singing to wel¬ 
come the light; 

The buds are all opening: the dew’s 
on the flower: 

If you shake but a branch, see there 
falls quite a shower. 

By the side of their mothers, look 
under the trees, 

flow the young lambs are skipping 
about as they please; 

And by all those rings on the water, 
I know, 

The fishes are merrily swimming be¬ 
low. 

The bee, I dare say, has been long on 
the wing 

To get honey from every flower of the 
Spring; 

For the bee never idles, but labours 
all day, 

And thinks, wise little insect, work 
better than play. 

The lark’s singing gaily; it loves the 
bright sun, 

And rejoices that now the gay Spring 
is begun; 

For Spring is so cheerful, I think 
’twould be wrong 

If we did not feel happy to hear the 
lark’s song. 


Get up; for when all things are merry 
and glad, 

Good children should never be lazy 
and sad; 

For God gives us daylight, dear sister, 
that we 

May rejoice like the lark, and may 
work like the bee. 

Flora Hastings. 

GOOD-NIGHT AND GOOD¬ 
MORNING. 

A fair little girl sat under a tree, 

Sewing as long as her eyes could see, 

Then smoothed her work, and folded 
it right, 

And said, “Dear work, good-night! 
good-night!” 

Such a number of rooks came over her 
head, 

Crying “Caw! caw!” on their way to 
bed; 

She said as she watched their curious 
flight, 

“Little black things, good-night! 
good-night! ’ ’ 

The horses neighed, and the oxen 
lowed; 

The sheep’s ‘ ‘ bleat! bleat! ’ ’ came over 
the road; 

All seeming to say, with a quiet de- 
Jight, 

“Good little girl, good-night! good¬ 
night !” 



12 


Poems for Children 


She did not say to the sun “ Good¬ 
night ! ’ ’ 

Though she saw him there like a ball 
of light, 

For she knew he had God’s time to 
keep 

All over the world and never could 
sleep. 

The tall pink foxglove bowed his head, 

The violets curtsied and went to bed; 

And good little Lucy tii id up her hair, 

And said, on her kneeSj her favourite 
prayer. 

And while on her pillow she softly 

lay, 

She knew nothing more till again it 
was day: 

And all things said to the beautiful 
sun, 

‘ ‘ Good-morning, good-morning! our 
work is begun.” 

Lord Houghton. 

MY LITTLE BROTHER 

Little brother, darling boy, 

You are very dear to me! 

I am happy—full of joy, 

When your smiling face I see. 

How I wish that you could speak, 
And could know the words I say! 

Pretty stories I would seek 
To amuse you every day,— 

All about the honey-bees, 

Flying past us in the sun; 

Birds that sing among the trees, 
Lambs that in the meadows run. 

Siiake your rattle—here it is— 
Listen to its merry noise; 

And, when you are tired of this, 

I will bring you other toys. 

Mary Lundie Duncan. 


INFANT JOY. 

I have no name, 

I am but two days old. 

What shall I call thee ? 

T happy am, 

Joy is my name— 

Sweet joy befall thee. 

Pretty joy! 

Sweet joy but two days old; 
Sweet joy I call thee. 

Thou dost smile, 

I sing the while, 

Sweet joy befall thee! 

William Blake. 


CHOOSING A NAME. 

I have got a new-born sister ; 

I was nigh the first that kissed her. 
When the nursing woman brought her 
To papa, his infant daughter, 

How papa’s dear eyes did glisten!— 
She will shortly be to christen; 

And papa has made the offer, 

I shall have the naming of her. 

Now I wonder what would please her, 
Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa? 

Ann and Mary, they’re too common; 
Joan’s too formal for a woman; 
Jane’s a prettier name beside; 

But we had a Jane that died. 

They would say, if ’twas Rebecca, 
That she was a little Quaker. 

Edith’s pretty, but that looks 
Better in old English books; 

Ellen’s left off long ago; 

Blanche is out of fashion now. 

None that I have named as yet 
Are so good as Margaret. 

Emily is neat and fine, 

What do you think of Caroline ? 

How I’m puzzled and perplext 
What to choose or think of next t 
I am in a little fever 


Rhymes for Little Ones 


Lest the name that I shall give her 

Should disgrace her or defame her; 

I will leave papa to name her. 

Charles and Mary Lamb. 

MY LITTLE SISTER. 

I have a little sister, 

She is only two years old; 

But to us at home, who love her, 
She is worth her weight in gold. 

We often play together; 

And I begin to find, 

That to make my sister happy, 

I must be very kind; 

And always very gentle 

When we run about and play, 

Nor ever take her playthings 
Or little toys away. 

I must not vex or tease her, 

Nor ever angry be 

With the darling little sister 
That God has given me. 

Unknown. 

BARTHOLOMEW. 

Bartholomew is very sweet, 

Prom sandy hair to rosy feet. 

Bartholomew is six months old, 

And dearer far than pearls or gold. 

Bartholomew has deep blue eyes, 

Round pieces dropped from out the 
skies. 

Bartholomew is hugged and kissed: 

He loves a flower in either fist. 

Bartholomew's my saucy son: 

No mother has a sweeter one! 

Norman Gale . 


*3 

I MUST NOT TEASE MY MOTHER. 

I must not tease my mother, 

For she is very kind; 

And everything she says to me 
I must directly mind; 

For when I was a baby 

And could not speak or walk, 

She let me in her bosom sleep, 

And taught me how to talk. 

I must not tease my mother; 

And when she likes to read, 

Or has the headache, I will step 
Most silently indeed: 

I will not choose a noisj^ play, 

Nor trifling troubles tell, 

But sit down quiet by her side, 

And try to make her well. 

I must not tease my mother; 

I'Ve heard dear father say, 

When I was in my cradle sick 
She nursed me night and day; 

She lays me in my little bed, 

She gives me clothes and food, 

And I have nothing else to pay 
But trying to be good. 

I must not tease my mother; 

She loves me all the day, 

And she has patience with my faults, 
And teaches me to pray. 

How much I ’ll strive to please her, 

She every hour shall see; 

For should she go away or die, 

What would become of me ? 

Lydia Huntly Sigourney. 

BABY. 

From “At the Back of the North Wind.” 
Where did you come from, baby dear 1 
Out of the everywhere into the here. 

Where did you get those eyes so blue? 
Out of the sky as I came through. 


Poems for Children 


H 

What makes the light in them sparkle 
and spin? 

Some of the starry spikes left in. 

Where did you get that little tear ? 

I found it waiting when I got here. 

What makes your forehead so smooth 
and high? 

A soft hand stroked it as I went by. 

What makes your cheek like a warm 
white rose ? 

I saw something better than any one 
knows. 

Whence that three-cornered smile of 
bliss? 

Three angels gave me at once a kiss. 

Where did you get this pearly ear ? 

God spoke, and it came out to hear. 

Where did you get those arms and 
hands ? 

Love made itself into bonds and bands. 

Feet, where did you come, you darling 
things? 

From the same box as the cherubs 1 
wings. 

How did they all just come to be you? 

God thought about me, and so I grew. 

But how did you come to us,you dear? 

God thought about you, and so I am 
here. 

George Macdonald. 

" ONLY A BABY SMALL.” 

Only a baby small, 

Dropped from the skies, 

Only a laughing face, 

Two sunny eyes; 


Only two cherry lips, 

One chubby nose; 

Only two little hands, 

Ten little toes. 

Only a golden head, 

Curly and soft; 

Only a tongue that wags 
Loudly and oft; 

Only a little brain, 

Empty of thought; 

Only a little heart, 

Troubled with naught. 

Only a tender flower 
Sent us to rear; 

Only a life to love 
While we are here; 

Only a baby small 
Never at rest; 

Small, but how dear to us, 

God knoweth best. 

Matthias Barr. 

THE FIRST TOOTH. 

Sister. 

Through the house what busy joy, 
Just because the infant boy 
Has a tiny tooth to show. 

I have got a double row, 

All as white, and all as small; 

Yet no one cares for mine at all. 

He can say but half a word, 

Yet that single sound’s preferred 
To all the words that I can say 
In the longest summer day. 

He cannot walk; yet if he put 
With mimic motion out his foot 
As if he thought he were advancing, 
It’s prized more than my best dancing 

Brother. 

Sister, I know you jesting are; 

Yet 0! of jealousy beware. 

If the smallest seed should be 
In your mind of jealousy, 


l 5 


Rhymes for Little Ones 


It will spring, and it will shoot, 

Till it bear the baneful fruit. 

I remember you, my dear, 

Young as is this infant here. 

There was not a tooth of those 
Your pretty even ivory rows, 

But as anxiously was watched, 

Till it burst its shell new hatched, 
As if it a Phoenix were, 

Or some other wonder rare. 

So when you began to walk— 

So when you began to talk— 

As now, the same encomiums past. 
’Tis not fitting this should last 
Longer than our infant days; 

A child is fed with milk and praise. 

Charles and Mary Lamb. 

THE CRUST OF BREAD. 

I must not throw upon the floor 
The crust I cannot eat; 

For many little hungry ones 
Would think it quite a treat. 

My parents labour very hard 
To get me wholesome food ; 

Then I must never waste a bit 
That would do others good. 

For wilful waste makes woeful want, 
And I may live to say, 

Oh! how I wish I had the bread 
That once I threw away! 

Unknown. 

I LOVE LITTLE PUSSY. 

I love little Pussy. 

Her coat is so warm, 

And if I don’t hurt her, 
She’ll do me no harm. 

So I’ll not pull her tail, 

Or drive her away, 

But pussy and I 

Very gently will play. 


She will sit by my side, 

And I ’ll give her her food, 
And she ’ll like me because 
I am gentle and good. 

I’ll pat little Pussy, 

And then she will purr, 

And thus show her thanks 
For my kindness to her; 

I’ll not pinch her ears, 

Nor tread on her paw, 

Lest I should provoke her 
To use her sharp claw; 

I never will vex her, 

Nor make her displeased, 
For Pussy can’t bear 
To be worried or teased. 

Jane Taylor. 

THE NORTH WIND DOTH BLOW. 

The north wind doth blow, 

And we shall have snow, 

And what will poor Robin do then ? 
Poor thing! 

Pie’ll sit in a barn, 

And to keep himself warm, 

Will hide his head under his wing. 
Poor thing! 

Unknown. 

A VISIT TO THE LAMBS. 

Mamma, let’s go and see the lambs; 

This warm and sunny day 
I think must make them very glad, 
And full of fun and play. 

Ah, there they are! You pretty things, 
Now don’t you run away; 

I’m come on purpose with mamma, 

To see you this fine day. 

What pretty little heads you’ve got, 
And such good-natured eyes; 

And ruff of wool all round your necks, 
How nicely curl’d it lies. 


Poems for Children 


16 

Come here, my pretty lambkin, come, 
And lick my hand—now do! 

How silly to be so afraid:— 

Indeed, I won’t hurt you. 

Just put your hand upon its back, 
Mamma—how nice and warm; 
There, pretty lamb, you see I don’t 
Intend to do you harm. 

Unknown, 


DEEDS OF KINDNESS. 

Suppose the little Cowslip 
Should hang its golden cup 
And say, ‘‘I’m such a little flower 
I’d better not grow up! ’ ’ 

ITow many a weary traveller 
Would miss its fragrant smell, 

How many a little child would grieve 
To lose it from the dell! 

Suppose the glistening Dewdrop 
Upon the grass should say, 

“What can a little dewdrop do? 

I’d better roll away! ’ ’ 

The blade on which it rested, 

Before the day was done, 

Without a drop to moisten it, 

Would wither in the sun. 

Suppose the little Breezes, 

Upon a summer’s day, 

Should think themselves too small to 
cool 

The traveller on his way: 

Who would not miss the smallest 
And softest ones that blow, 

And think they made a great mistake 
If they were acting so ? 

How many deeds of kindness 
A little child can do, 

Although it has but little strength 
And little wisdom too! 


It wants a loving spirit 
Much more than strength, to prove 
How many things a child may do 
For others by its love. 

Epes Sargent. 

THE LITTLE STAR. 

Twinkle, twinkle little star, 

How I wonder what you are; 

Up above the world, so bright, 

Like a diamond in the night. 

When the blazing sun is gone, 

When he nothing shines upon, 

Then you show your little light, 
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night. 

Then the traveller in the dark, 
Thanks you for your tiny spark; 

He could not tell which way to go 
If you did not twinkle so. 

In the dark blue sky you keep, 

And often through my curtains peep; 
For you never shut your eye 
Till the sun is in the sky. 

As your bright and tiny spark 
Lights the traveller in the dark, 
Though I know not what you are, 
Twinkle, twinkle little star. 

Unknown. 


THE MOTHER’S RETURN. 

A month, sweet Little-ones, is past 
Since your dear Mother went away,- 
And she to-morrow will return; 
To-morrow is the happy day. 

0 blessed tidings! thought of joy! 

The eldest heard with steady glee; 
Silent he stood: then laughed amain,— 
And shouted, “Mother, come to 
me! ’ ’ 


!7 


Rhymes for 

Louder and louder did he shout, 

With witless hope to bring her near; 
“Nay, patience! patience, little boy! 
Your tender mother cannot hear! ’ ’ 


I told of hills, and far-off towns, 

And long, long vales to travel 
through; 

He listens, puzzled, sore perplexed, 
But he submits; what can he do ? 

No strife disturbs his sister’s breast; 

She wars not with the mystery 
Of time and distance, night and day; 
The bonds of our humanity. 

Her joy is like an instinct, joy 
Of kitten, bird, or summer fly; 

She dances, runs, without an aim, 

She chatters in her ecstasy. 

Her brother now takes up the note, 
And echoes back his sister’s glee; 
They hug the infant in my arms, 

As if to force his sympathy. 

Then, settling into fond discourse, 

We rested in the garden bower; 
While sweetly shone the evening sun 
In his departing hour. 

We told o’er all that we had done,— 
Our rambles by the swift brook’s 
side 

Par as the willow-skirted pool, 

Where two fair swans together glide. 

We talked of change, of winter gone, 
Of green leaves on the hawthorn 
spray, 

Of birds that build their nests and 
sing, 

And ‘ ‘ all since Mother went away! 


Little Ones 

To her these tales they will repeat, 

To her our new-born tribes will 
show, 

The goslings green, the ass’s colt, 

The lambs that in the meadow go. 

But, see, the evening star comes forth! 
To bed the children must depart: 

A moment’s heaviness they feel, 

A sadness at the heart: 

— ’Tis gone—and in a merry fit 
They run up-stairs in gamesome 
race: 

I, too, infected by their mood,— 

I could have joined the wanton 
chase. 

Five minutes past—and 0,the change! 
Asleep upon their beds they lie; 

Their busy limbs in perfect rest, 

And closed the sparkling eye. 

Dorothy Wordsworth. 

HOW DOTH THE LITTLE 
BUSY BEE. 

How doth the little busy bee 
Improve each shining hour, 

And gather honey all the day 
From every opening flow’r! 

How skillfully she builds her cell! 
How neat she spreads the wax! 

And labours hard to store it well 
With the sweet food she makes. 

In works of labour or of skill, 

I would be busy too; 

For Satan finds some mischief still 
For idle hands to do. 

In books, or work, or healthful play, 
Let my first years be past, 

That I may give for ev’ry day 
Some good account at last. 

Isaac Watts. 


*8 


Poems for Children 


BABY-LAND. 

“ Which is the way to Baby-land?” 
‘ * Any one can tell; 

Up one flight, 

To your right; 

Please to ring the bell.” 

“What can you see in Baby-land?” 
‘ ‘ Little folks in white— 

Downy heads, 

Cradle-beds, 

Faces pure and bright! ’ ’ 

“What do they do in Baby-land?” 

1 ‘ Dream and wake and play, 
Laugh and crow, 

Shout and grow; 

Joily times have they! ’ ’ 

“What do they say in Baby-land?” 
1 ‘ Why, the oddest things; 

Might as well 
Try to tell 

What a birdie sings!” 

‘ ‘ Who is the Queen of Baby-land ? ’’ 
“Mother, kind and sweet; 

And her love, 

Born above, 

Guides the little feet.” 

George Cooper. 


LET DOGS DELIGHT TO BARK 
AND BITE. 

Let dogs delight to bark and bite, 
For God hath made them so; 

Let bears and lions growl and fight, 
For ’tis their nature too. 

But, children, you should never let 
Such angry passions rise; 

Your little hands were never made 
To tear each other’s eyes. 


Let love through all your actions run, 
And all your words be mild; 

Live like the Blessed Virgin’s Son, 
That sweet and lovely child. 

His soul was gentle as a lamb, 

And, as His stature grew, 

He grew in favour both with man, 
And God His Father, too. 

Now Lord of all, He reigns above, 

And from His heavenly throne 

He sees what children dwell in love, 
And marks them for his own. 

Isaac Watts. 


THE COW. 

Thank you, pretty cow, that made 
Pleasant milk to soak my bread, 
Every day, and every night, 

Warm, and fresh, and sweet, and 
white. 

Do not chew the hemlock rank, 
Growing on the weedy bank; 

But the yellow cowslip eat, 

That will make it very sweet. 

Where the purple violet grows, 
Where the bubbling water flows, 
Where the grass is fresh and fine, 
Pretty cow, go there and dine. 

Jane Taylor. 


COME HERE LITTLE ROBIN. 

Come here, little Robin, and don’t be 
afraid, 

I would not hurt even a feather; 
Come here, little Robin, and pick up 
some bread, 

To feed you this very cold weather. 


Rhymes for Little Ones 


I don’t mean to hurt you, you poor 
little thing, 

And pussy-cat is not behind me; 

So hop about pretty, and put down 
your wing, 

And pick up the crumbs, and don’t 
mind me! 

Cold Winter is come, but it will not 
last long, 

And Summer we soon shall be 
greeting; 

Then remember, sweet Robin, to sing 
me a song, 

In return for the breakfast you’re 
eating! 

Unknown. 

PUSSY-CAT. 

Pussy-cat lives in the servants’ hall. 

She can set up her back and purr: 

The little mice live in a crack in the 
wall, 

But they hardly dare venture to 
stir. 

For whenever they think of taking 
the air, 

Or filling their little maws, 

The pussy-cat says, ‘ ‘ Come out if you 
dare; 

I will catch you all with my claws. ’ ’ 

Scrabble, scrabble, scrabble! went all 
the little mice, 

For they smelt the Cheshire cheese; 

The pussy-cat said, “It smells very 
nice, 

Now do come out if you please. ’ ’ 

“Squeak!” said the little mouse. 
“Squeak, squeak, squeak!” 

Said all the young ones too, 

“We never creep out when cats are 
about, 

Because we’re afraid of you.” 


19 

So the cunning old cat lay down on a 

mat, 

By the fire in the servants’ hall: 
“If the little mice peep they’ll think 
I’m asleep ’ ’; 

So she rolled herself up like a ball. 

“Squeak!” said the little mouse, 
“we’ll creep out 
And eat some Cheshire cheese; 
That silly old cat is asleep on the mat, 
And we may sup at our ease.” 

Nibble, nibble, nibble! went all the 
little mice, 

And they licked their little paws; 
Then the cunning old cat sprang up 
from the mat, 

And caught them all with her claws. 

Ann Hawkshawe. 


STRANGE LANDS. 

Where do you come from, Mr. Jay? 

4 4 From the land of Play, from the 
land of Play.” 

And where can that be, Mr. Jay? 
“Far away—far away.” 

Where do you come from, Mrs. 
Dove ? 

“From the land of Love, from the 
land of Love.” 

And how do you get there, Mrs.. 
Dove ? 

“Look above—look above.” 

Where do you come from, Baby 
Miss ? 

u From the land of Bliss, from the 
land of Bliss.” 

And what is the way there, Baby 
Miss? 

1 ‘ Mother’s kiss—mother’s kiss. ’ ’ 
Laurence Alma-Tadema. 


20 


Poems for Children 


THE LAMB. 

Come, pretty lamb, do stay with me, 
You look so very mild; 

I’ll love you very much—now see! 
He’s scampered off quite wild. 

And do you think I’d hurt you, dear ? 

You run away so quick; 

I only want to feed you here, 

And nurse you when you ’re sick. 

I must not fret that you will go, 

And run away from me; 

I love my own mamma, I know, 

And you love yours, I see. 

Then keep in sight, do, pretty lamb, 
And crop the meadows gay, 

Or gambol near your sober dam, 

That I may see you play. 

Unknown. 


THE FLOWERS. 

Pretty flowers, tell me why 
All your leaves do open wide, 

Every morning, when on high 
The noble sun begins to ride ? 

This is why, my lady fair, 

If you would the reason know; 

For betimes the pleasant air 
Very cheerfully does blow: 

And the birds on every tree 
Sing a very merry tune, 

And the little honey bee 

Comes to suck my sugar soon. 

This is all the reason why 
I my little leaves undo; 

Lady, lady, wake and try 
If I have not told you true. 

Unknown. 


THE VIOLET. 

Down in a green and shady bed, 

A modest violet grew, 

Its stalk was bent, it hung its head, 
As if to hide from view. 

And yet it was a lovely flower, 

Its colour bright and fair; 

It might have graced a rosy bower, 
Instead of hiding there. 

Yet there it was content to bloom, 

In modest tints arrayed; 

And there diffused its sweet perfume, 
Within the silent shade. 

Then let me to the valley go, 

This pretty flower to see; 

That I may also learn to grow 
In sweet humility. 

Jane Taylor. 

THE ROBIN REDBREASTS. 

Two Robin Redbreasts built their nest 
Within a hollow tree; 

The hen sat quietly at home, 

The cock sang merrily; 

And all the little young ones said, 
“Wee, wee, wee, wee, wee, wee!” 

One day (the sun was warm and 
bright, 

And shining in the sky), 

Cock Robin said, “My little dears, 
’Tis time you learn to fly; ” 

And all the little young ones said, 
“I’ll try, I’ll try, I’ll try!” 

I know a child, and who she is 
I’ll tell you by-and-bye, 

When mamma says, “Do this,” or 
“That,” 

She says, 4 ‘ What f or ? ” and 
“Why?” 

She’d be a better child by far 
If she would say, “I’ll try.” 

Ann Hawkshawe r 


21 


Rhymes for Little Ones 


CRUMBS TO THE BIRDS. 

A bird appears a thoughtless thing, 
He’s ever living on the wing, 

And keeps up such a carolling, 

That little else to do but sing 

A man would guess had he. 

No doubt he has his little cares, 

And very hard he often fares, 

The which so patiently he bears, 

That listening to those cheerful airs, 
Who knows but he may be 

In want of his next meal of seeds? 

I think for that his sweet song pleads. 
If so, his pretty art succeeds, 

I’ll scatter there among the weeds 
All the small crumbs I have. 

Charles and Mary Lamb. 

THE BIRD’S NEST. 

Eliza and Anne were extremely dis¬ 
tress ’d 

To see an old bird fly away from her 
nest, 

And leave her poor young ones 
alone; 

The pitiful chirping they heard from 
the tree 

Made them think it as cruel as cruel 
could be, 

Not knowing for what she had 
flown. 

But, when with a worm in her bill she 
return’d, 

They smil’d on each other, soon hav¬ 
ing discern’d 

She had not forsaken her brood! 
But like their dear mother was careful 
and kind, 

Still thinking of them, though she left 
them behind 

To seek for them suitable food. 

Elizabeth Turner . 


THE SHEEP. 

Lazy sheep, pray tell me why 
In the grassy fields you lie, 

Eating grass and daisies white, 
From the morning till the night ? 
Every thing can something do, 
But what kind of use are you ? 

Nay, my little master, nay, 

Do not serve me so, I pray; 

Don’t you see the wool that grows 
On my back to make you clothes? 
Cold, and very cold you’d get, 

If I did not give you it. 

Sure it seems a pleasant thing 
To nip the daisies in the spring, 
But many chilly nights I pass 
On the cold and dewy grass, 

Or pick a scanty dinner where 
All the common’s brown and bare. 

Then the farmer comes at last, 
When the merry spring is past, 
And cuts my woolly coat away 
To warm you in the winter’s day; 
Little master, this is why 
In the grassy fields I lie. 

Ann Taylor . 


THE PET LAMB. 

The dew was falling fast, the stars 
began to blink; 

I heard a voice; it said, Drink, 
pretty creature, drink!” 

And, looking o’er the hedge, before 
me I espied 

A snow-white mountain-lamb, with 
a Maiden at its side. 

Nor sheep nor kine were near; the 
lamb was all alone, 

And by a slender cord was tethered 
to a stone; 


22 


Poems for Children 


With one knee on the grass did the 
little Maiden kneel, 

While to that mountain-lamb she 
gave its evening meal. 

The lamb, while from her hand he 
thus his supper took, 

Seemed to feast with head and ears; 
and his tail with pleasure 
shook. 

“Drink, pretty creature, drink,” she 
said in such a tone 

That I almost received her heart 
into my own. 

’Twas little Barbara Lewthwaite, a 
child of beauty rare! 

I watched them with delight, they 
were a lovely pair. 

Now with her empty can the 
maiden turned away: 

But ere ten yards were gone her 
footsteps did she stay. 

Right towards the lamb she looked: 
and from a shady place 

I unobserved could see the workings 
of her face; 

If Nature to her tongue could meas¬ 
ured numbers bring, 

Thus, thought I, to her lamb the 
little Maid might sing: 

“What ails thee, young One, what? 
Why pull so at thy cord ? 

Is it not well with thee? well both 
for bed and board? 

Thy plot of grass is soft, and green 
as grass can be: 

Rest, little young One, rest; what 
is’t that aileth thee? 

‘ ‘ What is it thou wouldst seek ? What 
is wanting to thy heart? 

Thy limbs, are they not strong? 
And beautiful thou art: 


This grass is tender grass: these 
flowers they have no peers: 
And that green corn is all day rus¬ 
tling in thy ears! 

“If the sun be shining hot, do but 
stretch thy woollen chain, 

This beech is standing by, its covert 
thou canst gain; 

For rain and mountain-storms! the 
like thou needst not fear, 

The rain and storm are things that 
scarcely can come here. 

“Rest, little One, rest; thou hast for¬ 
got the day 

When my father found thee first, in 
places far away: 

Many flocks were on the hills, but 
thou wert owned by none, 

And thy mother from thy side for 
evermore was gone. 

“He took thee in his arms, and in 
pity brought thee home; 

A blessed day for thee! Then 
whither wouldst thou roam ? 

A faithful nurse thou hast: the 
dam that did thee wean 
Upon the mountain-tops no kinder 
could have been. 

“Thou know’st that thrice a day I 
have brought thee in this can 
Fresh water from the brook, as 
clear as ever ran; 

And twice in the day, when the 
ground is wet with dew, 

I bring thee draughts of milk— 
warm milk it is and new. 

“Thy limbs will shortly be twice as 
stout as they are now, 

Then I’ll yoke thee to my cart like 
a pony in the plough; 


Rhymes for Little Ones 


My playmate shall thou be; and 
when the wind is cold, 

Our hearth shall be thy bed, our 
house shall be thy fold. 

“It will not, will not rest! Poor 
creature, can it be 

That ’tis thy mother’s heart which 
is working so in thee ? 

Things that I know not of belike to 
thee are dear, 

And dreams of things which thou 
canst neither see nor hear. 

“Alas! the mountain-tops that look 
so green and fair! 

I’ve heard of fearful winds and 
darkness that come there; 

The little brooks that seem all pas¬ 
time and all play, 

When they are angry, roar like 
lions for their prey. 

“Here thou needst not dread the 
raven in the sky; 

Night and day thou art safe,—our 
cottage is hard by. 

Why bleat so after me ? why pull so 
at thy chain? 

Sleep—and at break of day I will 
come to thee again!” 

As homeward through the lane I 
went with lazy feet, 

This song to myself did I oftentimes 
repeat; 

And it seemed, as I retraced the 
ballad line by line, 

That but half of it was hers, and 
one half of it was mine. 

Again, and once again, did I repeat 
the song, 

“Nay,” said I, “more than half to 
the damsel must belong, 


2 3 

For she looked with such a look, 
and she spoke with such a tone, 
That I almost received her heart 
into my own.” 

William Wordsworth. 


THE TURTLE-DOVE’S NEST. 

Very high in the pine-tree, 

The little turtle-dove 
Made a pretty little nursery, 

To please her little love. 

She was gentle, she was soft, 

And her large dark eye 
Often turned to her mate 
Who was sitting close by. 

“Coo,” said the turtle-dove; 

‘ ‘ Coo, ’ ’ said she; 

“Oh, I love thee,” said the turtle¬ 
dove ; 

“And I love thee.” 

In the long shady branches 
Of the dark pine tree, 

How happy were the doves 
In their little nursery! 

The young turtle-doves 

Never quarrelled in the nest; 

For they dearly loved each other, 
Though they loved their mother 
best. 

“Coo,” said the little doves, 

“Coo,” said she; 

And they played together kindly 
In the dark pine tree. 

Is this nursery of yours, 

Little sister, little brother, 

Like the turtle-dove’s nest— 

Do you love one another? 

Are you kind, are you gentle, 

As children ought to be ? 

Then the happiest of nests 
Is your own nursery. 

Ann Hawkshawe. 



2 4 


Poems for Children 


THE WAVES ON THE SEA¬ 
SHORE. 

Roll on, roll on, you restless waves, 
That toss about and roar; 

But why do you all run back again 
When you have reached the shore? 

Roll on, roll on, you noisy waves, 

Roll higher up the strand; 

How is it that you cannot pass 
That line of yellow sand? 

Make haste, or else the tide will turn; 

Make haste, you noisy sea; 

Roll quite across the bank, and then 
Far on across the lea. 

“We must not dare,” the waves 
reply: 

“That line of yellow sand 
Is laid along the shore to bond 
The waters from the land; 

“And all should keep to time and 
place. 

And all should keep to rule; 

Both waves upon the sandy shore, 

And little boys at school.” 

Ann Hawkshawe. 

THE CITY MOUSE AND THE 
GARDEN MOUSE. 

Tiie city mouse lives in a house;— 
The garden mouse lives in a bower, 
He’s friendly with the frogs and 
toads, 

And sees the pretty plants in 
flower. 

The city mouse eats bread and 
cheese;— 

The garden mouse eats what he 
can; 

We will not grudge him seeds and 
stocks, 

Poor little timid furry man. 

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 


THE NEST. 

Arthur, to Robert, made a sign 
That check’d his merry tongue; 
And whispered, “See, what luck is 
mine, 

A blackbird and its young. 

“Look through the bush; see, there’s 
the nest, 

The mother, brood, and all; 

You shall have her—I’ll take the 
rest, 

But, hold me, lest I fall.” 

‘ ‘ Stay, Arthur, for a moment, stay, 
And think upon the deed; 

When you were young and helpless, 
say, 

Did you a mother need? 

“If so, you soon may understand 
How these poor birds will fare; 
That you may gain your cruel end, 
They lose a mother’s care.” 

Mary Elliott. 

BIRDIE. 

Birdie, birdie, quickly come! 

Come and take this little crumb; 

Go and fetch your little brother, 
And be kind to one another. 

Birdie, sing a song to me, 

I will very quiet be; 

Yes, my birdie—yes, I will 
Be so quiet, and so still. 

Oh! so still, you shall not hear me; 
Fear not, birdie, to come near me; 
Tell me, in your pleasant song, 
What you’re doing all day long. 

How you pass the rainy days— 

Tell me all about your plays. 

Have you lessons, birdie? tell— 
Did you learn to read and spell? 


Rhymes for 

Or just fly from tree to tree, 

Where you will, at liberty— 

Far up in the clear blue sky 
Very far, and very high? 

Or in pleasant summer hours, 

Do you play with pretty flowers? 
Birdie, is this all you do ? 

Then I wish that I were you. 

Eliza Lee Follen. 

WHAT IS VEAL? 

When William asked, how veal was 
made, 

His little sister smil’d; 

‘ 1 It grew in foreign climes, ’ 9 she said, 
And call’d him ^‘silly child.” 

Eliza, laughing at them both, 

Told, to their great surprise, 

The meat just cook’d to make them 
broth, 

Once liv’d—had nose and eyes; 

Nay, more, had legs, and walk’d 
about; 

William in wonder stood; 

He could not make the riddle out, 

But begged his sister would. 

Well, brother, I have had my laugh, 
And you shall have yours now; 
Veal, when alive, was called a calf; 

Its mother was a cow. 

Mary Elliott. 

THE POPPY. 

High on a bright and sunny bed 
A scarlet poppy grew; 

And up it held its staring head, 
And thrust it full in view. 

Yet no attention did it win, 

Bv all these efforts made, 

And less unwelcome had it been 
In some retired shade. 


Little Ones 25 

For though within its scarlet breast, 
No sweet perfume was found, 

It seemed to think itself the best 
Of all the flowers around. 

From this I may a hint obtain, 

And take great care indeed, 

Lest I appear as pert and vain 
As does this gaudy weed. 

Jane Taylor. 

THE YOUNG LINNETS. 

Did you ever see the nest 
Of chaffinch or of linnet, 

When the little downy birds 
Are lying snugly in it? 

Gaping wide their yellow mouths 
For something nice to eat ? 
Caterpillar, worm, or grub, 

They reckon dainty meat. 

When the mother bird returns, 

And finds them still and good, 

She will give them each by turns 
A proper share of food. 

She has hopped from spray to spray, 

And peeped with knowing eye 

Into all the folded leaves 

Where caterpillars lie. 

§ 

She has searched among the grass, 
And flown from tree to tree, 
Catching gnats, and flies, to feed 
Her little family. 

I have seen the linnets chirp, 

And shake their downy wings; 
They are pleased to see her come, 

And pleased with what she brings. 

But I never saw them look 
Impatient for their food. 

Somebody , at dinner time, 

Is seldom quite so good. 

Ann ffawkshawe. 


26 


Poems for Children 


COMMON THINGS. 

The sun is a glorious thing, 

That comes alike to all, 

Lighting the peasant’s lowly cot, 

The noble’s painted hall. 

The moonlight is a gentle thing, 

It through the window gleams 
Upon the snowy pillow where 
The happy infant dreams. 

It shines upon the fisher’s boat, 

Out on the lovely sea; 

Or where the little lambkins lie, 
Beneath the old oak tree. 

The dew-drops on the summer morn, 
Sparkle upon the grass; 

The village children brush them off, 
That through the meadows pass. 

There are no gems in monarch’s 
crowns 

More beautiful than they; 

And yet we scarcely notice them, 

But tread them off in play. 

Poor Robin on the pear-tree sings, 
Beside the cottage door; 

The heath-flower fills the air with 
sweets 

Upon the pathless moor. 

There are as many lovely things, 

As many pleasant tones, 

For those who sit by cottage-hearths 
As those who sit on thrones! 

Ann ffawkshawe. 

THE GLOW-WORMS. 

The Glow-worm with his horny 
wings 

Can fly about at will; 

And now he settles on the heath, 
And now upon the hill. 


The while his graceful little wife 
And daughters stay at home; 
From sheltered nooks and quiet 
shades 

They could not wish to roam. 

The little lady Glow-worms seem 
Most gentle little things, 

And quite unlike their brothers 
bold, 

For none of them have wings. 

But each within her bosom bears 
A tiny lamp that glows 
With light as tender as the love 
The purest spirit knows. 

They would not fly away from 
home, 

Nor leave it, if they could; 

For happy are the homes where all 
Are loving, kind, and good. 

But he, the little gentleman, 

With shining horny wings, 

On duty or on pleasure bent, 
Forsook the little things. 

“He must be weary now, or worn,” 
The lady Glow-worm said; 

“And soon he will return again, 

To rest his weary head. 

“And we must kindle up the glow, 
Like emeralds at night, 

And try to beautify his home 
With cheerfulness and light.” 

Ann HawksJiaive. 


THE GREAT BROWN OWL. 

The brown Owl sits in the ivy bush, 
And she looketh wondrous wise, 
With a horny beak beneath her cowl, 
And a pair of large round eyes. 


2 1 


Rhymes for Little Ones 


She sat all day on the self-same spray, 
From sunrise till sunset; 

And the dim, grey light it was all too 
bright 

For the Owl to see in yet. 

“Jenny-Owlet, Jenny-Owlet,” said a 
merry little bird, 

“They say you’re wondrous wise; 
But I don’t think you see, though 
you’re looking at ME 
With your large, round, shining 
eyes. ’ ’ 

But night came soon, and the pale 
white moon 

Rolled high up in the skies; 

And the great brown Owl flew away 
in her cowl, 

With her round, large, shining eyes. 

Ann Hawkshaive. 

OH! LOOK AT THE MOON. 

Oh! look at the moon, 

She is shining up there; 

Oh! mother, she looks 
Like a lamp in the air. 

Last week she was smaller, 

And shaped like a bow; 

But now she’s grown bigger, 

And round as an 0. 

Pretty moon, pretty moon, 

How you shine on the door, 
And make it all bright 
* On my nursery floor! 

You shine on my playthings, 

And show me their place, 

And I love to look up 
At your pretty bright face. 

And there is a star 

Close by you, and may be 
That small, twinkling star 
Is your little baby. 

Eliza Lee Follen. 


DAME DUCK’S FIRST LEC¬ 
TURE ON EDUCATION. 

Old Mother Duck has hatched a 
brood 

Of ducklings, small and callow; 

Their little wings are short; their 
down 

Is mottled grey and yellow. 

There is a quiet little stream, 

That runs into the moat, 

Where tall green sedges spread 
their leaves, 

And water lilies float. 

Close by the margin of the brook 
The old duck made her nest, 

Of straw, and leaves, and withered 
grass, 

And down from her own breast. 

And there she sat for four long 
weeks, 

In rainy days and fine, 

Until the ducklings all came out— 
Four, five, six, seven, eight, nine! 

One peeped out from beneath her 
wing, 

One scrambled on her back; 

“That’s very rude,” said old Dame 
Duck, 

“Get off! quack, quack, quack, 
quack. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ ’Tis close, ’ ’ said Dame Duck, shov¬ 
ing out 

The egg-shells with her bill; 

“Besides it never suits young ducks 
To keep them sitting still.” 

So, rising from her nest, she said, 
“Now, children, look at me: 

A well-bred duck should waddle so, 
From side to side—d’ye see?” 


28 


Poems for Children 


“Yes,” said the little ones, and then 
She went on to explain: 

“A well-bred duck turns in its toes 
As I do—try again. ” 

“Yes,” said the ducklings, waddling 
on. 

“That’s better,” said their 
mother; 

“But well-bred ducks walk in a row, 
Straight—one behind another.” 

“Yes,” said the little ducks again, 
All waddling in a row; 

“Now to the pond,” said old Dame 
Duck— 

Splash! splash, and in they go. 

“Let me swim first,” said old Dame 
Duck, 

“To this side, now to that; 
There, snap at those great brown¬ 
winged flies, 

They make young ducklings fat. 

“Now, when you reach the poultry- 
yard 

The hen-wife, Molly Head 
Will feed you, with the other fowls, 
On bran and mashed-up bread; 

“The hens will peck and fight, but 
mind, 

I hope that all of you 
Will gobble up the food as fast 
As well-bred ducks should do. 

“You’d better get into the dish, 
Unless it is too small; 

In that case I should use my foot 
And overturn it all.” 

The ducklings did as they were bid, 
And found the plan so good 
That, from that day, the other 
fowls 

Got hardly any food. 

Ann Hawkshawc. 


A LEGEND OF THE NORTHLAND. 

Away, away in the Northland, 

Where the hours of the day are 
few, 

And the nights are so long in winter 
That they cannot sleep them 
through; 

Where they harness the swift rein¬ 
deer 

To the sledges, when it snows; 

And the children look like bear’s cubs 
In their funny, furry clothes: 

They tell them a curious story— 

I don’t believe ’tis true; 

And yet you may learn a lesson 
If I tell the tale to you. 

Once, when the good Saint Peter 
Lived in the world below, 

And walked about it, preaching, 

Just as he did, you know, 

He came to the door of a cottage, 

Tn traveling round the earth, 
Where a little woman was making 
cakes, 

And baking them on the hearth; 

And being faint with fasting, 

For the clay was almost done, 

He asked her, from her store of cakes, 
To give him a single one. 

So she made a very little cake, 

But as it baking lay, 

She looked at it, and thought it 
seemed 

Too large to give away. 

Therefore she kneaded another, 

And still a smaller one; 

But it looked, when she turned it over, 
As large as the first had done. 


Rhy mes for Little Ones 


Then she took a tiny scrap of dough, 
And rolled and rolled it flat; 

And baked it thin as a wafer— 

But she couldn’t part with that. 

For she said, “My cakes that seem too 
small 

When I eat of them myself 
Are yet too large to give away.” 

So she put them on the shelf. 

Then good Saint Peter grew angry, 
For he was hungry and faint; 

And surely such a woman 

Was enough to provoke a saint. 

And he said, “You are far too selfish 
To dwell in a human form, 

To have both food and shelter, 

And fire to keep you warm. 

“Now, you shall build as the birds do, 
And shall get your scanty food 
By boring, and boring, and boring, 
All day in the hard, dry wood.” 

Then up she went through the chim¬ 
ney, 

Never speaking a word, 

And out of the top flew a woodpecker, 
For she was changed to a bird. 

She had a scarlet cap on her head, 
And that was left the same, 

But all the rest of her clothes were 
burned 

Black as a coal in the flame. 

And every country schoolboy 
Has seen her in the wood, 

Where she lives in the trees till this 
very day, 

Boring and boring for food. 

And this is the lesson she teaches: 

Live not for yourself alone, 

Lest the needs you will not pity 
Shall one day be your own. 


29 

Give plenty of what is given to you, 
Listen to pity’s call; 

Don’t think the little you give is 
great, 

And the much you get is small. 

Now, my little boy, remember that, 
And try to be kind and good, 
When you see the woodpecker’s sooty 
dress, 

And see her scarlet hood. 

You mayn’t be changed to a bird 
though you live 
As selfishly as you can; 

But you will be changed to a smaller 
thing— 

A mean and selfish man. 

Plioebe Cary. 

THE CHORUS OF FROGS. 

“Yaup, yaup, yaup!” 

Said the croaking voice of a frog: 
“A rainy day 
In the month of May, 

And plenty of room in the bog.” 

“Yaup, yaup, yaup!” 

Said the frog, as it hopped away: 
“The insects feed 
On the floating weed, 

And I’m hungry for dinner to-day. ” 

“Yaup, yaup, yaup!” 

Said the frog as it splashed about: 
“Good neighbours all. 

When you hear me call, 

It is odd that you do not come out.” 

“Yaup, yaup, yaup!” 

Said the frogs; “it is charming 
weather; 

We’ll come and sup 
When the moon is up, 

And we’ll all of us croak together.” 

Ann ffawkshawe. 


3 ° 


Poems for Children 


WHO HAS SEEN THE WIND? 


Who has seen the wind? 

Neither I nor you: 

But when the leaves hang trem¬ 
bling, 

The wind is passing through. 

Who has seen the wind? 

Neither you nor I: 

But when the trees bow down 
their heads, 

The wind is passing by. 

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 

A CAT TO HER KITTENS. 

“Little kittens, be quiet—be quiet, 
I say! 

You see I am not in the humour for 
play. 

I’ve watched a long time every 
crack in the house, 

Without being able to catch you a 
mouse. 

“Now, Muff, I desire you will let my 
foot go; 

And, Prinny, how can you keep 
jumping, miss, so? 

“Little Tiny, get up, and stand on 
your feet, 

And be, if you can, a little discreet! 

Am I to be worried and harass’d by 
you, 

Till I really don’t know what to 
think or to do? 

“But hush! hush! this minute! now 
don’t mew and cry— 

My anger is cooling, and soon will 
pass by, 

So kiss me and come and sit down 
on the mat, 

And make your dear mother a nice 
happy cat.” 

Eliza Grove. 


TO A BUTTERFLY. 

Butterfly, butterfly, brilliant and 
bright, 

How very often I envy your flight! 

I think I should like through the 
whole summer day, 

Like you, pretty insect, to flutter and 
play. 

Butterfly, butterfly, onward you fly, 

Now skimming so lowly, now rising 
so high, 

First on the jessamine, then on the 
rose, 

Then you will visit the pinks, I sup¬ 
pose? 

Now you are resting, pray let me 
come near: 

I will not hurt you, nor touch you, 
don’t fear; 

For mamma says my hand is too 
heavy by far, 

To touch such little creatures as 
butterflies are. 

Now you are off again. Butterfly, 
stay; 

Don’t fly away from me, butterfly, 
pray: 

Just let me look at your beautiful 
wings; 

Oh! it does not mind me, but upward 
it springs. 

Flora Hastings. 

THE CANARY. 

Mary had a little bird, 

With feathers bright and yellow. 

Slender legs—upon my word, 

He was a pretty fellow! 

Sweetest notes he always sung, 
Which much delighted Mary; 

Often when his cage was hung, 

She sat to hear Canary. 


Rhymes for 

Crumbs of bread and dainty seeds 
She carried to him daily: 

Seeking for the early weeds, 

She deck’d his palace gaily. 

This, my little readers, learn, 

And ever practise duly; 

Songs and smiles of love return 
To friends who love you truly. 

Elizabeth Turner. 

KINDNESS TO ANIMALS. 

Little children, never give 
Pain to things that feel and live; 

Let the gentle robin come 
For the crumbs you save at home,— 
As his meat you throw along 
He’ll repay you with a song; 

Never hurt the timid hare 
Peeping from her green grass lair, 

Let her come and sport and play 
On the lawn at close of day; 

The little lark goes soaring high 
To the bright windows of the sky, 
Singing as if ’twere always spring, 
And fluttering on an untired wing,— 
Oh! let him sing his happy song, 

Nor do these gentle creatures wrong. 

Unknown. 

THE CLOCKING HEN. 

“Will you take a walk with me, 

My little wife to-day? 

There’s barley in the barley-fields, 
And hay-seed in the hay.” 

“Thank you,” said the clocking hen; 
“ I’ve something else to do; 

I’m busy sitting on my eggs, 

I cannot walk with you. ’ ’ 

“Clock, clock, clock, clock,” 

Said the clocking hen; 

“My little chicks will soon be hatch’d, 
I ’ll think about it then. ’ ’ 


Little Ones 31 

The clocking hen sat on her nest, 
She made it in the hay; 

And warm and snug beneath her 
breast 

A dozen white eggs lay. 

Crack, crack, went all the eggs; 

Out dropp’d the chickens small! 

‘ ‘ Clock, ’ ’ said the clocking hen, 

Now I have you all. 

“Come along, my little chick, 

I’ll take a walk with you .” 
“Hallo!” said the barn-door cock, 

‘ ‘ Cock-a-doodle-doo. ’ ’ 

Ann Haivkshawe. 

SLEEPY HARRY. 

Get up, little boy, you are sleeping 
too long, 

Your brother is dressed and singing a 
song, 

And you must be wakened,—oh! fie! 

Come, come open the curtains, and let 
in the light, 

For children should only be sleepy at 
night, 

When stars may be seen in the sky. 

Unknown. 

THE WORLD. 

Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful 
world, 

With the wonderful water round 
you curled, 

And the wonderful grass upon your 
breast— 

"World, you are beautifully drest. 

The wonderful air is over me, 

And the wonderful wind is shaking 
the tree, 

It walks on the water and whirls 
the mills, 

And talks to itself on the tops of 
the hills. 


3 2 


Poems for Children 


You friendly Earth! how far you go, 

With the wheat-fields that nod and 
the rivers that flow, 

With cities and gardens, and cliffs 
and isles, 

And people upon you for thousands 
of miles? 

Ah! you are so great, and I am so 
small, 

I tremble to think of you, World, at 
all; 

And yet when I said my prayers 
to-day, 

A whisper inside me seemed to say, 
“You are more than the Earth, 
though you are such a dot: 

You can love and think, and the 
Earth cannot!” 

William Brighty Bands. 


THE LAMB. 

Little lamb, who made thee ? 

Dost thou know who made thee ? 

Gave thee life and bid thee feed 
By the stream and o ’er the mead; 
Gave thee clothing of delight, 

Softest clothing, woolly, bright; 

Gave thee such a tender voice 
Making all the vales rejoice; 

Little lamb, who made thee? 

Dost thou know who made thee? 

Little lamb, I’ll tell thee, 

Little lamb, I’ll tell thee. 

He is called by thy name, 

For He calls Himself a Lamb; 

He is meek and He is mild, 

He became a little child 
I a child and thou a lamb, 

We are called by His Name 
Little lamb, God bless thee, 

Little lamb, God bless thee. 

William Blake. 


THE LOST LAMB. 

Storm upon the mountain, 

Night upon its throne! 

And the little snow-white lamb, 
Left alone, alone! 

Storm upon the mountain, 

Rainy torrents beating, 

And the little snow-white lamb, 
Bleating, ever bleating! 

Down the glen the shepherd 
Drives his flock afar; 

Through the murky mist and cloud, 
Shines no beacon star. 

Fast he hurries onward, 

Never hears the moan 
Of the pretty snow-white lamb, 

Left alone, alone! 

At the shepherd’s doorway 
Stands his little son; 

Sees the sheep come trooping home, 
Counts them one by one; 

Counts them full and fairly— 
Trace he findeth none 
Of the little snow-white lamb, 

Left alone, alone! 

Up the glen he races, 

Breasts the bitter wind, 

Scours across the plain and leaves 
Wood and wold behind;— 
Storm upon the mountain, 

Night upon its throne,— 

There he finds the little lamb, 

Left alone, alone! 

Struggling, panting, sobbing, 
Kneeling on the ground, 

Round the pretty creature’s neck 
Both his arms are wound; 

Soon within his bosom, 

All its bleatings done, 

Home he bears the little lamb, 

Left alone, alone! 


33 


Rhymes for Little Ones 


Oh! the happy faces, 

By the shepherd’s fire! 

High without the tempest roars, 
But the laugh rings higher. 
Young and old together 
Make that joy their own— 

In their midst the little lamb, 
Left alone, alone! 

Thomas Westwood. 


THE GREEDY PIGGY THAT ATE 
TOO FAST. 

“Oh, Piggy, what was in your trough 
That thus you raise your head and 
cough ? 

Was it a rough, a crooked bone, 
That cookey in the pail had thrown ? 
Speak, Piggy, speak! and tell me 
plain 

What ’tis that seems to cause 3 ’ou 

•/ 

pain. ’ ’ 

“Oh, thank you, sir! I will speak out 
As soon as I can clear my throat. 
This morning, when I left my sty, 
So eager for my food was I, 

That I began my rich repast—- 
I blush to own it—rather fast; 
And, what with haste, sir, and ill- 
luck, 

A something in my poor throat 
stuck, 

Which I discover’d very soon 
To be a silver table-spoon. 

This, sir, is all—no other tale 
Have I against the kitchen-pail.” 

“I hope it is; but I must own 
I’m sorry for my table-spoon; 

And scarcely can I overlook 
The carelessness of Mistress Cook. 
But, Piggy, profit by your pain, 
And do not eat so fast again.” 

Eliza Grove. 


A LITTLE HOBBY-HORSE. 

There was a little hobby-horse, 
Whose name I do not know,— 
An idle little hobby-horse, 

That said he wouldn’t go. 

But his master said, “If it be so 
That you will only play, 

You idle rogue, you shall not eat 
My nice sweet clover-hay!” 

Then Hobby shook his saucy head, 
And said, “If that’s the case, 
Rather than go without my hay, 

I ’ll try and mend my pace. ’ ’ 

Eliza Grove. 


THE POND. 

There was a round pond, and a 
pretty pond too, 

About it white daisies and butter- 
flowers grew; 

And dark weeping willows that 
stoop to the ground, 

Hipp’d in their long branches and 
shaded it round. 

A party of ducks to this pond would 
repair, 

To feast on the green water-weeds 
that grew there: 

Indeed, the assembly would fre¬ 
quently meet, 

To talk over affairs in this pleasant 
retreat. 

Now, the subjects on which they 
were wont to converse, 

I’m sorry I cannot include in my 
verse; 

For though I’ve oft listened, in 
hopes of discerning, 

I own ’tis a matter that baffles my 
learning. 


34 


Poems for Children 


One day a young chicken that lived 
thereabout, 

Stood watching to see the ducks 
pass in and out; 

Now standing tail upward, now div¬ 
ing below; 

She thought of all things she should 
like to do so. 


So this foolish chicken began to de¬ 
clare, 

4 ‘I’ve really a great mind to venture 
in there; 

My mother oft tells me I must not 
go nigh, 

But then, for my part, I can never 
tell why. 

“Wings and feathers have ducks, and 
so have I too; 

And my feet, what’s the reason that 
they will not do? 

Though my beak is pointed, and 
their beaks are round, 

Is that any reason that I should be 
drowned ? 


“So why should not I swim as well 
as a duck? 

Suppose that I venture, and e’en 
try my luck! 

For,” said she (spite of all that her 
mother had taught her), 

“I am so remarkably fond of the 
water. ’ ’ 


So in this poor ignorant creature 
flew, 

But soon found her dear mother’s 
cautions were true; 

She splashed and she dashed and 
she turned herself round, 

And heartily wished herself safe on 
the ground. 


But ’twas too late to begin to re¬ 
pent, 

The harder she struggled the deeper 
she went; 

And when every effort she vainly 
had tried, 

She slowly sunk down to the bottom 
and died! 

The ducks, I perceived, began 
loudly to quack, 

When they saw the poor fowl float¬ 
ing dead on its back; 

And by their grave gestures and 
looks ’twas apparent 

They discoursed on the sin of not 
minding a parent. 

Jane Taylor. 

THE SPIDER AND HIS WIFE. 

In a dark little crack, half a yard 
from the ground, 

An honest old spider resided; 

So pleasant, and snug, and convenient 
’twas found, 

That his friends came to see it for 
many miles round: 

It seemed for his pleasure provided. 

Of the cares, and fatigues, and dis¬ 
tresses of life, 

This spider was thoroughly tired: 

So, leaving those scenes of contention 
and strife 

(His children all settled), he came 
with his wife, 

To live in this cranny retired. 

Pie thought that the little his wife 
would consume 

’Twould be easy for him to provide 
her; 

Forgetting he lived in a gentleman’s 
room, 

Where came every morning a maid 
and a broom. 

Those pitiless foes to a spider! 


35 


Rhymes for Little Ones 


For when (as sometimes it would 
chance to befall), 

Just when his neat web was com¬ 
pleted, 

Brush—came the great broom down 
the side of the wall, 

And, perhaps, carried with it, web, 
spider, and all, 

He thought himself cruelly treated. 

One day, when their cupboard was 
empty and dry, 

His wife (Mrs. Hairy-leg Spinner), 

Said to him, “Dear, go to the cobweb 
and try 

If you can’t find the leg or the wing 
of a fly, 

As a bit of a relish for dinner.’’ 

Directly he went, his long search to 
resume 

(For nothing he ever denied her), 

Alas! little guessing his terrible doom, 

Just then came the gentleman into his 
room 

And saw the unfortunate spider. 

So while the poor fellow in search of 
his pelf, 

In the cobweb continued to linger, 

The gentleman reached a long cane 
from the shelf 

(For certain good reasons best known 
to himself, 

Preferring his stick to his finger ). 

Then presently, poking him down to 
the floor, 

Nor stopping at all to consider, 

With one horrid crash the whole bus’- 
ness was o’er, 

The poor little spider was heard of no 
more, 

To the lasting distress of his widow! 

Jane Taylor. 


THE BUTTERFLY’S BALL. 

Come, take up your hats, and away let 
us haste 

To the Butterfly’s ball and the Grass¬ 
hopper’s feast; 

The trumpeter Gadfly has summon’d 
the crew, 

And the revels are now only waiting 
for you. 

On the smooth shaven grass by the 
side of the wood, 

Beneath a broad oak that for ages has 
stood, 

See the children of earth, and the 
tenants of air, 

For an evening’s amusement together 
repair. 

And there came the Beetle, so blind 
and so black, 

Who carried the Emmet, his friend, 
on his back; 

And there was the Gnat, and the 
Dragon-fly too, 

With all their relations, green, orange, 
and blue. 

And there came the Moth in his plum¬ 
age of down, 

And the Hornet in jacket of yellow 
and brown, 

Who with him the Wasp his com¬ 
panion did bring, 

But they promised that evening to 
lay by their sting. 

And the sly little Dormouse crept out 
of his hole, 

And led to the feast his blind brother 
the Mole; 

And the Snail, with his horns peeping 
out from his shell, 

Came from a great distance — the 
length of an ell. 


36 Poems for Children 


A mushroom their table, and on it was 
laid 

A water dock leaf, with a table-cloth 
made; 

The viands were various, to each of 
their taste, 

And the Bee brought his honey to 
crown the repast. 

There close on his haunches, so solemn 
and wise, 

The Frog from a corner look’d up to 
the skies; 

And the Squirrel well-pleased such 
diversion to see, 

Sat cracking his nuts overhead in a 
tree. 


Then out came the Spider, with fingers 
so fine, 

To show his dexterity on the tight 
line; 

From one branch to another his cob¬ 
webs he slung, 

Then as quick as an arrow he darted 
along. 

But just in the middle, oh! shocking 
to tell! 

From his rope in an instant poor 
Harlequin fell; 

Yet he touch’d not the ground, but 
with talons outspread, 

Hung suspended in air at the end of 
a thread. 

Then the Grasshopper came with a 
jerk and a spring, 

Very long was his leg, though but 
short was his wing; 

He took but three leaps, and was soon 
out of sight, 

Then chirp’d his own praises the rest 
of the night. 


With step so majestic the Snail did 
advance, 

And promised the gazers a minuet to 
dance; 

But they all laugh’d so loud that he 
pull’d in his head, 

And went in his own little chamber 
to bed. 

Then as evening gave way to the 
shadows of night, 

The watchman, the Glow-worm, came 
out with his light; 

Then home let us hasten while yet we 
can see, 

For no watchman is waiting for you 
and for me. 

William Roscoe. 

THE BUTTERFLY'S FUNERAL. 

Oh ye! who so lately were blithesome 
and gay, 

At the Butterfly’s banquet carousing 
away; 

Your feasts and your revels of pleas¬ 
ure are fled, 

For the chief of the banquet, the 
Butterfly’s dead! 

No longer the Flies and the Emmets 
advance, 

To join with their friends in the 
Grasshopper’s dance, 

For see his fine form o’er the favour¬ 
ite bend, 

And the Grasshopper mourns for the 
loss of his friend. 

And hark to the funeral dirge of the 
Bee, 

And the Beetle, who follows as solemn 
as he! 

And see, where so mournful the green 
rushes wave, 

The Mole is preparing the Butterfly’s 
grave. 


Rhymes for Little Ones 37 

The Dormouse attended, but cold and And here shall the daisy and violet 
forlorn, blow, 

And the Gnat slowly winded his shrill And the lily discover her bosom of 
little horn; snow; 

And the Moth, being grieved at the While under the leaves, in the even- 
loss of a sister, ings of spring, 

Bent over her body and silently kissed Still mourning his friend, shall the 
her. Grasshopper sing. 

Unknown. 


The corpse was embalmed at the set 
of the sun, 

And enclosed in a case which the Silk¬ 
worm had spun; 

By the help of the Hornet the coffin 
was laid 

On a bier out of myrtle and jessamine 
made. 

In weepers and scarfs came the 
Butterflies all, 

And six of their number supported the 
pall; 

And the Spider came there in his 
mourning so black, 

But the fire of the Glow-worm soon 
frightened him back. 

The Grub left his nut-shell to join the 
sad throng, 

And slowly led with him the Book¬ 
worm along, 

Who wept for his neighbour’s unfor¬ 
tunate doom, 

And wrote these few lines, to be placed 
on his tomb: 

Epitaph. 

At this solemn spot, where the green 
rushes wave, 

In sadness we bent o’er the Butter¬ 
fly ’s grave; 

’Twas here the last tribute to beauty 
we paid, 

As we wept o ’er the mound where her 
ashes are laid. 


THE SPIDER AND THE FLY. 

“Will you walk into my parlour?” 

said the Spider to the Fly, 

‘ ‘ ’Tis the prettiest little parlour that 
ever you did spy; 

The way into my parlour is up a 
winding stair, 

And I have many curious things to 
show when you are there. ’ ’ 

‘' Oh, no, no, ’ ’ said the little Fly; “ to 
ask me is in vain; 

For who goes up your winding stair 
can ne’er come down again.” 
“I’m sure you must be weary, dear, 
with soaring up so high; 

Will you rest upon my little bed?” 
said the Spider to the Fly. 
“There are pretty curtains drawn 
around; the sheets are fine and 
thin, 

And if you like to rest awhile, I’ll 
snugly tuck you in! ” 

“Oh, no, no,” said the little Fly, 
‘ ‘ for I’ve often heard it said, 

They never, never wake again, who 
sleep upon your bed! ’ ’ 

Said the cunning Spider to the Fly: 
“Dear friend, what can I do, 

To prove the warm affection I’ve 
always felt for you? 

I have within my pantry good store 
of all that’s nice; 

I’m sure you’re very welcome—will 
you please to take a slice?” 
“Oh, no, no,” said the little Fly, 
“ kind sir, that cannot be, 


Poems for Children 


38 

I’ve heard what’s in your pantry, 
and I do not wish to see! ” 
“Sweet creature!” said the Spider, 
‘ ‘ you ’re witty and you ’re wise, 

How handsome are your gauzy 
wings, how brilliant are your 
eyes; 

I have a little looking-glass upon 
my parlour shelf, 

If you’ll step in one moment, dear, 
you shall behold yourself.” 

“I thank you, gentle sir,” she said, 
“for what you’re pleased to 
say, 

And bidding you good morning 
now, I call another day.” 

The Spider turned him round' about, 
and went into his den, 

For well he knew the silly Fly 
would soon come back again: 

So he wove a subtle web in a little 
corner sly, 

And set his table ready to dine 
upon the Fly. 

Then he came out to his door again, 
and merrily did sing, 

“Come hither, hither, pretty Fly, 
with the pearl and silver wing; 

Your robes are green and purple— 
there’s a crest upon your head; 

Your eyes are like the diamond 
bright, but mine are dull as 
lead!” 

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly 
little Fly, 

Hearing his wily, flattering words, 
came slowly flitting by; 

With buzzing wings she hung aloft, 
then near and nearer drew, 

Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, 
and green and purple hue— 

Thinking only of her crested head— 
poor foolish thing!—at last 

Up jump’d the cunning Spider, 
• and fiercely held her fast. 


He dragg’d her up his winding 
stair, into his dismal den, 

Within his little parlour—but she 
ne’er came out again! 

And now, dear little children, who 
may this story read, 

To idle, silly, flattering words, I 
pray you ne’er give heed: 

Unto an evil counsellor close heart 
and ear and eye, 

And take a lesson from this tale, 
of the Spider and the Fly. 

Mary Howitt. 

SNOWDROPS. 

Great King Sun is out in the cold, 

His babies are sleeping, he misses 
the fun; 

So he knocks at their door with 
fingers of gold: 

“Time to get up,” says Great 
King Sun. 

Though the garden beds are 
sprinkled with snow, 

It’s time to get up in the earth 
below. 

Who wakes first ? A pale little 
maid, 

All in her nightgown opens the 
door, 

Peering round as if half afraid 

Before she steps out on the win¬ 
try floor. 

All in their nightgowns, snowdrops 
stand, 

White little waifs in a lonely land. 

Great King Sun with a smile looks 
down,— 

“Where are your sisters? I 
want them, too!” 

Each baby is hurrying into her 
gown. 

Purple and saffron, orange and 
blue, 


Rhymes for Little Ones 


Great King Sun gives a louder 
call,— 

“Good morning, Papa!” cry the 
babies all. 

W. Graham Robertson. 

“THERE WAS A LITTLE GIRL.” 

There was a little girl, who had a 
little curl 

Right in the middle of her forehead, 
And when she was good, she was very, 
very good, 

But when she was bad she was 
horrid. 

9 

She stood on her head, on her little 
trundle-bed, 

With nobody by for to hinder ; 

She screamed and she squalled, she 
yelled and she bawled, 

And drummed her little heels 
against the winder. 

Her mother heard the noise, and 
thought it was the boys 
Playing in the empty attic, 

She rushed upstairs, and caught her 
unawares, 

And spanked her, most emphatic. 

Unknown. 

THE REFORMATION OF 
GODFREY GORE. 

Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore— 
No doubt you have heard the name 
before— 

Was a boy who never would shut a 
door! 

The wind might whistle, the wind 
might roar, 

And teeth be aching and throats be 
sore, 

But still he never would shut the 
door. 


39 

His father would beg, his mother 
implore, 

“Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore, 

We really do wish you would shut 
the door!” 

Their hands they wrung, their hair 
they tore; 

But Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore 

Was deaf as the buoy out at the 
Nore. 

When he walked forth the folks 
would roar, 

“Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore, 

Why don’t you think to shut the 
door? ” 

They rigged out a Shutter with sail 
and oar, 

And threatened to pack off Gus¬ 
tavus Gore 

On a voyage of penance to Singa¬ 
pore. 

But he begged for mercy, and said, 
“No more! 

Pray do not send me to Singapore 

On a Shutter, and then I will shut 
the door!” 

“You will?” said his parents; “then 
keep on shore! 

But mind you do! For the plague 
is sore 

Of a fellow that never will shut the 
door, 

Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore!” 

William Brighty Rands. 

THE MOUSE AND THE CAKE. 

A mouse found a beautiful piece of 
plum-cake, 

The richest and sweetest that mortal 
could make; 

’Twas heavy with citron, and fra¬ 
grant with spice, 

And cover’d with sugar all spark¬ 
ling as ice. 


40 


Poems for Children 


“My stars!” said the Mouse, while 
his eye beamed with glee, 

‘ ‘ Here’s a treasure I Nre found; what 
a feast it will be! 

But, hark! there’s a noise; ’tis my 
brothers at play, 

So I’ll hide with the cake, lest they 
wander this way. 

“Not a bit shall they have, for I 
know I can eat 

Every morsel myself, and I’ll have 
such a treat ’ ’; 

So off went the mouse as he held the 
cake fast, 

While his hungry young brothers 
went scampering past. 

He nibbled, and nibbled, and 
panted, but still 

He kept gulping it down till lie 
made himself ill; 

Yet he swallow’d it all, and ’tis easy 
to guess, 

He was soon so unwell that he 
groan’d with distress. 

His family heard him, and as he 
grew worse, 

They sent for the doctor, who made 
him rehearse 

How he’d eaten the cake to the very 
last crumb, 

Without giving his playmates and 
relatives some. 

“Ah, me!” cried the Doctor, “ad¬ 
vice is too late, 

You must die before long, so pre¬ 
pare for your fate; 

If you had but divided the cake 
with your brothers 

’Twould have done you no harm, 
and been good for the others. 


“Had you shared it the treat had 
been wholesome enough; 

But all eaten by one, it was danger¬ 
ous stuff; 

So prepare for the worst, ’ ’ and the 
word had scarce fled, 

When the doctor turned round, and 
the patient was dead. 

Now all little people the lesson may 
take, 

And some large ones may learn 
from the mouse and the cake; 
Not to be over selfish with what we 
may gain, 

Or the best of our pleasures may 
turn into pain. 

Eliza Cook. 

THE DEATH OF MASTER 
TOMMY ROOK. 

A pair of steady rooks 
Chose the safest of all nooks 
In the hollow of a tree to build their 
home; 

And while they kept within 
They did not care a pin 
For any roving sportsman who might 
come. 

Their family of five 
Were all happy and alive, 

And Mrs. Rook was careful as could 
be, 

To never let them out 
Till she looked all round about, 
And saw that they might wander far 
and free. 

She had talked to every one 
Of the dangers of a gun, 

And fondly begged that none of them 
would stir 

To take a distant flight, 

At morning, noon, or night, 

Before they prudently asked leave of 
her. 


4' 


Rhymes for Little Ones 


But one fine sunny day, 

Toward the end of May, 

Young Tommy Kook began to scorn 
her power, 

And said that he would fly 
Into the field close by, 

And walk among the daisies for an 
hour. 

Stop, stop!” she cried, alarmed, 
“I see a man that’s armed, 

And he will shoot you, sure as you are 
seen; 

Wait till he goes, and then, 

Secure from guns and men, 

We all will have a ramble on the 
green. ’ ’ 

But Master Tommy Rook 
With a very saucy look, 

Perched on a twig and plumed his 
jetty breast; 

Still talking all the while 
In a very pompous style, 

Of doing just what he might like the 
best. 

“I don’t care one bit,” said he, 

‘ ‘ For any gun you see; 

I am tired of the cautions you bestow; 
I mean to have my way, 

Whatever you may say, 

And shall not ask when I may stay 
or go.” 

“But, my son,” the Mother cried, 

11 1 only wish to guide 
Till you are wise and fit to go alone. 

I have seen much more of life, 

Of danger, woe, and strife 

Than you, my child, can possibly have 
known. 

II Just wait ten minutes here,— 

Let that man disappear ; 

I am sure he means to do some evil 
thing; 


I fear you may be shot 

If you leave this sheltered spot, 

So pray come back, and keep beside 
my wing.” 

But Master Tommy Rook 
Gave another saucy look, 

And chattered out, “Don’t care! don’t 
care! don’t care!” 

And off he flew with glee 
From his brothers in the tree, 

And lighted on the field so green and 
fair. 

He hopped about and found 
All pleasant things around; 

He strutted through the daisies,—but 
alas! 

A loud shot—bang!—was heard, 
And the wounded, silly bird 
Rolled over, faint and dying, on the 
grass. 

II There, there! I told you so! ” 

Cried his mother in her woe; 

‘ i I warned you with a parent’s 
thoughtful truth; 

And you see that I was right 
When I tried to stop your flight, 
And said you needed me to guide your 
youth. ’ ’ 

Poor Master Tommy Rook 
Gave a melancholy look 
And cried, just as he drew his latest 
breath: 

“Forgive me, mother dear, 

And let my brothers hear 
That disobedience caused my cruel 
death. ’ ’ 

Now, when his lot was told, 

The rooks, both young and old, 

All said he should have done as he 
was bid,— 

That he well deserved his fate; 

And I, who now relate 
His hapless story, really think he did. 

Eliza Cook. 


4 2 


Poems for Children 


HOW THE LITTLE KITE 
LEARNED TO FLY. 

“I never can do it,” the little kite 
said, 

As he looked at the others high over 
his liG&d * 

“I know I should fall if I tried to 
fly.” 

“Try,” said the big kite; “only try! 

Or I fear you never will learn at 
all.” 

But the little kite said, 11 1’m afraid 
Ill fall.” 

The big kite nodded: “Ah well, 
good-by; 

I’m off;” and he rose toward the 
tranquil sky. 

Then the little kite’s paper stirred 
at the sight, 

And trembling he shook himself 
free for flight. 

First whirling and frightened, then 
braver grown, 

Up, up he rose through the air 
alone, 

Till the big kite looking down could 

see 

The little one rising steadily. 

Then how the little kite thrilled 
with pride, 

As he sailed with the big kite side 
by side! 

While far below he could see the 
ground, 

And the boys like small spots mov¬ 
ing round. 

They rested high in the quiet air, 

And only the birds and the clouds 
were there. 

“Oh, how happy I am!” the little 
kite cried, 

“And all because I was brave, and 
tried.” 

Unknown. 


THE ANT AND THE CRICKET. 

A silly young cricket, accustomed to 
sing 

Through the warm, sunny months of 
gay summer and spring, 

Began to complain, when he found 
that at home 

Ilis cupboard was empty and winter 
was come. 

Not a crumb to be found 
On the snow-covered ground; 
Not a flower could he see, 

Not a leaf on a tree: 

“Oh, what will become,” says the 
cricket, “of me?” 


At last by starvation and famine 
made bold, 

All dripping with wet and all trem¬ 
bling with cold, 

Away he set off to a miserly ant, 

To see if, to keep him alive, he would 
grant 

Him shelter from rain: 

A mouthful of grain 
He wished only to borrow, 
He’d repay it to-morrow: 

If not, he must die of starvation and 
sorrow. 


Says the ant to the cricket, “I’m your 
servant and friend, 

But we ants never borrow, we ants 
never lend; 

But tell me, dear sir, did you lay 
nothing by 

When the weather was warm?” 
Said the cricket, “Not I. 

My heart was so light 
That I sang day and night, 
For all nature looked gay.” 
“You sang, sir, you say? 

Go then,” said the ant, “and dance 
winter away. ’ ’ 


43 


Rhymes for Little Ones 


Thus ending, he hastily lifted the 
wicket 

And out of the door turned the poor 
little cricket. 

Though this is a fable, the moral is 
good: 

If you live without work, you must 
live without food. 

Unknown. 

THE WORLD’S MUSIC. 

Tiie world’s a very happy place, 
Where every child should dance 
and sing, 

And always have a smiling face, 

And never sulk for anything. 

I waken when the morning’s come, 
And feel the air and light alive 

With strange sweet music like the hum 
Of bees about their busy hive. 

The linnets play among the leaves 
At hide-and-seek, and chirp and 
sing; 

While, flashing to and from the eaves, 
The swallows twitter on the wing. 

The twigs that shake, and boughs that 
sway; 

And tall old trees you could not 
climb; 

And winds that come, but cannot stay, 
Are gaily singing all the time. 

From dawn to dark the old mill-wheel 
Makes music, going round and 
round; 

And dusty-white with flour and meal, 
The miller whistles to its sound. 

And if you listen to the rain 
When leaves and birds and bees 
are dumb, 

You hear it pattering on the pane 
Like Andrew beating on his drum. 


The coals beneath the kettle croon, 
And clap their hands and dance in 
glee; 

And even the kettle hums a tune 
To tell you when it’s time for tea. 

The world is such a happy place, 
That children, whether big or small, 
Should always have a smiling face, 
And never, never sulk at all. 

Gabriel Setoun. 

GOING DOWN HILL ON A 
BICYCLE. 

(A Boy’s Song.) 

With lifted feet, hands still, 

I am poised, and down the hill 
Dart, with heedful mind; 

The air goes by in a wind. 

Swifter and yet more swift, 

Till the heart with a mighty lift 
Makes the lungs laugh, the throat 
cry:— 

“O bird, see; see, bird, I fly. 

‘‘Is this, is this your joy? 

O bird, then I, though a boy, 

For a golden moment share 
Your feathery life in air!” 

Say, heart, is there aught like this 
In a world that is full of bliss? 

’Tis more than skating, bound 
Steel-shod to the level ground. 

Speed slackens now, I float 
A while in my airy boat; 

Till, when the wheels scarce crawl, 
My feet to the treadles fall. 

Henry Charles Beeching. 


44 


Poems for Children 


PLAYGROUNDS. 

In summer I am very glad 
We children are so small, 

For we can see a thousand things 
That men can’t see at all. 

They don’t know much about the moss 
And all the stones they pass: 

They never lie and play among 
The forests in the grass: 

They walk about a long way off; 

And, when we’re at the sea, 

Let father stoop as best he can 
He can’t find things like me. 

But, when the snow is on the ground 
And all the puddles freeze, 

I wish that I were very tall, 

High up above the trees. 

Laurence Alma-Tadema . 

LOVING AND LIKING. 

ADDRESSED TO A CHILD. 

Say not you love a roasted fowl, 

But you may love a screaming owl, 
And, if you can, the unwieldy toad 
That crawls from his secure abode, 
Within the grassy garden wall, 

When evening dews begin to fall. 

Oh! mark the beauty of his eye 
What wonders in that circle lie! 

So clear, so bright, our fathers said 
He wears a jewel in his head! 

And when, upon some showery day, 
Into a path or public way, 

A frog leaps out from bordering grass 
Startling the timid as they pass, 

Do you observe him, and endeavour 
To take the intruder into favour; 
Learning from him to find a reason 
For a light heart in a dull season. 

And you may love the strawberry 
flower, 

And love the strawberry in its bower: 


But when the fruit, so often praised 
For beauty, to your lip is raised, 

Say not you love the delicate treat, 
But like it, enjoy it, and thankfully 
eat. 

Dorothy Wordsworth. 


THE COTTAGER TO HER INFANT. 

The days are cold, the nights are long, 
The north-wind sings a doleful song; 
Then hush again upon my breast; 
All merry things are now at rest, 

Save thee, my pretty Love! 

The kitten sleeps upon the hearth; 
The crickets long have ceased their 
mirth; 

There’s nothing stirring in the house 
Save one wee, hungry, nibbling mouse. 
Then why so busy thou? 

Nay! start not at that sparkling light; 
’Tis but the moon that shines so 
bright 

On the window-pane bedropped with 
rain: 

Then, little Darling, sleep again, 

And wake when it is day! 

Dorothy Wordsworth. 


BIG AND LITTLE THINGS. 

I cannot do the big things 
That I should like to do, 

To make the earth for ever fair, 
The sky for ever blue. 

But I can do the small things 
That help to make it sweet; 

Tho’ clouds arise and fill the skies, 
And tempests beat. 

I cannot stay the rain-drops 
That tumble from the skies; 

But I can wipe the tears away 
From baby’s pretty eyes. 


Rhymes for Little Ones 


I cannot make the sun shine, 

Or warm the winter bleak; 

But I can make the summer come 
On sister’s rosy cheek. 

I cannot stay the storm clouds, 

Or drive them from their place; 

But I can clear the clouds away 
From brother’s troubled face. 

I cannot make the corn grow, 

Or work upon the land; 

But I can put new strength and will 
In father’s busy hand. 

I cannot stay the east wind, 

Or thaw its icy smart; 

But I can keep a corner warm 
In mother’s loving heart. 

I cannot do the big things 
That I should like to do, 

To make the earth for ever fair, 
The sky for ever blue. 

But I can do the small things 
That help to make it sweet; 

Tho’ clouds arise and fill the skies 
And tempests beat. 

Alfred II. Miles. 

ADDRESS TO A CHILD DURING A 

BOISTEROUS WINTER EVENING. 

What way does the Wind come? 
What way does he go? 

He rides over the water, and over the 
snow, 

Through wood, and through vale; and 
o’er rocky height, 

Which the goat cannot climb, takes 
his sounding flight; 

He tosses about in every bare tree, 

As, if you look up, you plainly may 
see: 

But how he will come, and whither he 
goes, 

There’s never a scholar in England 
knows. 


45 

He will suddenly stop in a cunning 
nook, 

And rings a sharp ’larum; but, if you 
should look, 

There’s nothing to see but a cushion 
of snow 

Round as a pillow, and whiter than 
milk, 

And softer than if it were covered 
with silk. 

Sometimes he’ll hide in the cave of a 
rock, 

Then whistle as shrill as the buzzard 
cock. 

Yet seek him,—and what shall you 
find in his place? 

Nothing but silence and empty space; 

Save, in a corner, a heap of dry leaves, 

That he’s left, for a bed, to beggars 
or thieves! 

As soon as ’tis daylight, to-morrow, 
with me 

You shall go to the orchard, and then 
you will see 

That he has been there, and made a 
great rout, 

And cracked the branches, and strewn 
them about: 

Heaven grant that he spare but that 
one upright twig 

That looked up at the sky so proud 
and big, 

All last summer, as well you know, 

Studded with apples, a beautiful 
show! 

Hark! over the roof he makes a pause, 

And growls as if he would fix his 
claws 

Right in the slates, and with a huge 
rattle 

Drive them down, like men in a battle: 

But let him range round; he does us 
no harm, 

We build up the fire, we’re snug and 
warm; 


Poems for Children 


46 

Untouched by his breath, sec the 
candle shines bright, 

And burns with a clear and steady 
light; 

Books have we to read,—but that 
half-stifled knell, 

Alas! ’tis the sound of the eight 
o’clock bell. 

Come, now we’ll to bed! and when 
we are there 

He may work his own will, and what 
shall we care? 

He may knock at the door,—we ’ll not 
let him in; 

May drive at the windows,—we’ll 
laugh at his din: 

Let him seek his own home, wherever 
it be; 

Here’s a cozie warm house for Ed¬ 
ward and me. 

Dorothy Wordsworth. 

THE SHADOWS. 

Mamma. 

The candles are lighted, the fire blazes 
bright, 

The curtains are drawn to keep out 
the cold air; 

What makes you so grave, little dar¬ 
ling to-night? 

And where is your smile, little quiet 
one, where? 

Child. 

Mamma, I see something so dark on 
the wall, 

It moves up and down, and it looks 
very strange; 

Sometimes it is large, and sometimes 
it is small; 

Pray, tell me what it is, and why 
does it change ? 


Mamma. 

It is mamma’s shadow that puzzles 
you so, 

And there is your own, close beside 
it, my love; 

Now run round the room, it will go 
where you go; 

When you sit ’twill be still, when 
you rise it will move. 


Child. 

I don’t like to see it; do please let 
me ring 

For Betsy to take all the shadows 
away. 

Mamma. 

No; Betsy oft carries a heavier thing, 

But she could not lift this, should 
she try the whole day. 

These wonderful shadows are caused 
by the light 

From fire, and from candles, upon 
us that falls; 

Were we not sitting here, all that 
place would be bright, 

But the candle can’t shine through 
us, you know, on the walls. 

And, when you are out some fine day 
in the sun, 

I’ll take you where shadows of 
apple-trees lie; 

And houses and cottages too,—every 
one 

Casts a shadow when the sun’s 
shining bright in the sky. 

Now hold up your mouth and give me 
a sweet kiss; 

Our shadows kiss too! don’t you see 
it quite plain! 


47 


Rhy mes for Little Ones 


Child. 

Oh, yes! and I thank you for telling 
me this; 

I’ll not be afraid of a shadow again. 
Mary Lundie Duncan. 

ENVY. 

This rose-tree is not made to bear 
The violet blue, nor lily fair, 

Nor the sweet mignonette. 

And if this tree were discontent, 

Or wished to change its natural bent, 
It all in vain would fret. 

And should it fret, you would suppose 
It ne’er had seen its own red rose, 

Nor after gentle shower 
Had ever smelled its rose’s scent, 

Or it could ne’er be discontent 
With its own pretty flower. 

Like such a blind and senseless tree 
As I’ve imagined this to be, 

All envious persons are. 

With care and culture all may find 
Some pretty flower in their own mind, 
Some talent that is rare. 

Charles and Mary Lamb. 

ANGER. 

Anger in its time and place 
May assume a kind of grace. 

It must have some reason in it, 

And not last beyond a minute. 

If to further lengths it go, 

It does into malice grow. 

’Tis the difference that we see 
’Twixt the serpent and the bee. 

If the latter you provoke, 

It inflicts a hasty stroke, 

Puts you to some little pain, 

But it never stings again. 

Close in tufted bush or brake 
Lurks the poison-swelled snake 


Nursing up his cherished wrath; 

In the purlieus of his path, 

In the cold, or in the warm. 

Mean him good, or mean him harm, 
Wheresoever fate may bring you, 

The vile snake will always sting you. 

Charles and Mary Lamb. 


THE SLUGGARD. 

’Tis the voice of a sluggard; I 
heard him complain, 

“You have waked me too soon; I 
must slumber again”; 

As the door on its hinges, so he on 
his bed 

Turns his sides, and his shoulders, 
and his heavy head. 

“A little more sleep and a little 
more slumber ’ ’; 

Thus he wastes half his days, and 
his hours without number; 

And when he gets up he sits folding 
his hands 

Or walks about saunt’ring, or tri¬ 
fling he stands. 

I pass’d by his garden, and saw the 
wild brier 

The thorn and the thistle grow 
broader and higher; 

The clothes that hang on him are 
turning to rags; 

And his money still wastes till he 
starves or he begs. 

I made him a visit, still hoping to 
find, 

That he took better care for improv¬ 
ing his mind; 

He told me his dreams, talk’d of 
eating and drinking: 

But he scarce reads his Bible, and 
never loves thinking. 


48 Poems lor Children 


Said I then to my heart, “ Here’s a 
lesson for me ’ ’; 

That man’s but a picture of what I 
might be; 

But thanks to my friends for their 
care in my breeding, 

Who taught me betimes to love 
working and reading. 

Isaac Waits. 


LITTLE RAIN-DROPS. 

Oh ! where do you come from 
You little drops of rain; 

Pitter patter, pitter patter 
Down the window-pane? 

They won’t let me walk, 

And they won’t let me play, 

And they won’t let me go 
Out of doors at all to-day. 

They put away my playthings 
Because I broke them all, 

And they locked up all my bricks, 
And took away my ball. 

Tell me, little rain-drops, 

Is that the way you play, 

Pitter patter, pitter patter, 

All the rainy day? 

They say I’m very naughty, 

But I’ve nothing else to do 

But sit here at the window; 

I should like to play with you. 

The little rain-drops cannot speak, 
But “pitter, patter, pat,” 

Means, “ We can play, on this side, 
Why can’t you play on that?” 

Ann Hawkshawe. 


TRY AGAIN. 

’Tis a lesson you should heed, 

Try again; 

If at first you don’t succeed, 

Try again; 

Then your courage should appear, 

For if you will persevere, 

You will conquer, never fear, 

Try again. 

Once or twice, though you should fail, 
Try again; 

If you would at last prevail, 

Try again; 

If we strive, ’tis no disgrace 

Though we do not win the race; 

What should we do in that case? 

Try again. 

If you find your task is hard, 

Try again; 

Time will bring you your reward, 

Try again; 

All that other folk can do, 

Why, with patience, may not you? 

Only keep this rule in view, 

Try again. 

William Edward Hickson. 


KING BRUCE AND THE SPIDER. 

King Bruce of Scotland flung him¬ 
self down 

In a lonely mood to think; 

’Tis true he was monarch, and wore 
a crown, 

But his heart was beginning to 
sink. 

For he had been trying to do a 
great deed, 

To make his people glad; 

He had tried, and tried, but 
couldn’t succeed; 

And so he became quite sad. 


Rhymes for Little Ones 


He flung himself down in low de¬ 
spair, 

As grieved as man could be; 

And after a while as he pondered 
there 

“I’ll give it all up,” said he. 

Now just at that moment a spider 
dropp’d 

With its silken cobweb clue; 

And the king in the midst of his 
thinking stopp’d 

To see what that spider would do. 

’Twas a long way up to the ceiling 
dome, 

And it hung by a rope so fine; 

That how it could get to its cobweb 
home 

King Bruce could not divine. 

It soon began to cling and crawl 

Straight up with strong endeav¬ 
our; 

But down it came with a slippery 
sprawl, 

As near the ground as ever. 

Up, up it ran, not a second it stay’d 

To utter the least complaint; 

Till it fell still lower, and there it 
laid, 

A little dizzy and faint. 

Its head grew steady — again it 
went, 

And travell’d a half-yard higher; 

’Twas a delicate thread it had to 
tread, 

A road where its feet would tire. 

Again it fell and swung below, 

But again it quickly mounted; 

Till up and down, now fast, now 
slow, 

Nine brave attempts were 
counted. 


49 

“Sure,” cried the King, “that fool¬ 
ish thing 

Will strive no more to climb; 

When it toils so hard to reach and 
cling, 

And tumbles every time.” 

But up the insect went once more, 

Ah me! ’tis an anxious minute; 

He’s'only a foot from his cobweb 
door, 

Oh, say will he lose or win it! 

Steadily, steadily, inch by inch 

Higher and higher he got; 

And a bold little run at the very 
last pinch 

Put him into his native cot. 

‘ ‘ Bravo, bravo! ’ ’ the King cried out, 

“All honour to those who try; 

The spider up there defied despair; 

He conquer’d, and why shouldn’t 
I?” 

And Bruce of Scotland braced his 
mind, 

And gossips tell the tale, 

That he tried once more as he tried 
before, 

And that time did not fail. 

Pay goodly heed, all ye who read, 

And beware of saying, ‘ ‘ I 
can’t;” 

’Tis a cowardly word, and apt to 
lead 

To Idleness, Polly, and Want. 

Whenever you find your heart 
despair 

Of doing some goodly thing; 

Con over this strain, try bravely 
again, 

And remember the Spider and 
King. 

Eliza Cook. 


5 ° 


Poems for 

LITTLE THINGS. 

Little drops of water, 

Little grains of sand, 

Make the mighty ocean 
And the pleasant land. 

Thus the little minutes, 

Humble though they be, 

Make the mighty ages 
Of eternity. 

Thus our little errors 
Lead the soul away 
From the path of virtue, 

Far in sin to stray. 

Little deeds of kindness, 

Little words of love, 

Make our earth an Eden, 

Like the heaven above. 

Little seeds of mercy, 

Sown by youthful hands, 

Grow to bless the nations 
Far in heathen lands. 

Ebenezer Cobham Braver. 


THE LITTLE SISTER LEFT IN 
CHARGE. 

Sleep, little brother, you must not 
awaken 

Till mother comes back to her baby 
again: 

Weary, and long is the way she has 
taken, 

Over the common, and through the 
green glen, 

Up the steep hill by the path that is 
nearest, 

Thinking of you as she hurries 
along: 


Children 

Sleep, then, and dream that she’s 
watching you, dearest, 

Rocking your cradle, and singing 
her song. 

In the still room there’s no sound to 
disquiet, 

Only the clock ticking even, and 
low, 

Only the bird in his cage hanging by 
it, 

Chirping a note as he hops to and 
fro. 

Out in the sunlight the woodbine is 
stirring, 

Filling the air with its fragrance so 
sweet, 

On the low window seat pussy sits 
purring, 

Washing her face with her little 
white feet. 

Far down the lane merry voices are 
ringing, 

Comrades have beckoned me out to 
their play. 

Why did you start? it is I that am 
singing: 

Why did you frown? I’m not go¬ 
ing away. 

Could I forsake you for play, or for 
pleasure, 

Lying alone in your helplessness 
here ? 

How could I leave you, my own little 
treasure, 

No one to rock you, and no one to 
cheer ? 

In the room corners I watch the dark 
shadows, 

Deepening, and lengthening, as 
evening comes on; 

Soon will the mowers return from the 
meadows; 

Far to the westward the red sun is 
gone. 


Rhymes for 

By the green hedgerow I see her now 
coming, 

Where the last sunbeam is just on 
her track; 

Still I sit by you, love, drowsily hum¬ 
ming. 

Sleep, little baby, till mother comes 
back. 

Cecil Frances Alexander. 

THE COW AND THE ASS. 

Beside a green meadow a stream 
used to flow, 

So clear, you might see the white 
pebbles below. 

To this cooling brook the warm cat¬ 
tle would stray, 

To stand in the shade, on a hot 
summer’s day. 

A cow, quite oppressed by the heat 
of the sun, 

Came here to refresh, as she often 
had done; 

And, standing quite still, stooping 
over the stream, 

Was musing, perhaps; or perhaps 
she might dream. 

But soon a brown ass of respectable 
look 

Came trotting up also, to taste of 
the brook, 

And to nibble a few of the daisies 
and grass: 

“How d’ye do?” said the Cow.— 

11 How d ’ye do ? ” said the Ass. 

“Take a seat!” said the Cow, gently 
waving her hand. 

“By no means, dear Madam,” said 
he, “while you stand!” 

Then, stooping to drink with a com¬ 
plaisant bow, 

“Ma’am, your health!” said the Ass. 
“Thank you, Sir!” said the 
Cow, 


Little Ones 51 

When a few of these compliments 
more had been passed, 

They laid themselves down on the 
herbage at last; 

And waiting politely—as gentle¬ 
men must— 

The ass held his tongue, that the 
cow might speak first. 

Then with a deep sigh, she directly 
began: 

“Don’t you think, Mr. Ass, we are 
injured by man? 

’Tis a subject which lies with a 
weight on my mind: 

We really are greatly oppressed by 
mankind. 


‘ ‘ Pray what is the reason—I see none 
at all— 

That I always must go when Suke 
chooses to call? 

Whatever I’m doing—’tis certainly 
hard!— 

I’m forced to leave off to be milked 
in the yard. 

‘ ‘ I’ve no will of my own, but must do 
as they please, 

And give them my milk to make 
butter and cheese: 

I’ve often a great mind to kick 
down the pail, 

Or give Suke a box on the ear with 
my tail!” 

“But, Ma’am,” said the Ass, “not 
presuming to teach— 

Oh dear! I beg pardon—pray fin¬ 
ish your speech: 

I thought you had finished, in¬ 
deed,” said the Swain; 

“Go on, and I’ll not interrupt you 
again.” 


5 2 


Poems for Children 


“Why, Sir, I was just then about to 
observe, 

I’m resolved that these tyrants no 
longer I’ll serve; 

But leave them for ever to do as 
they please, 

And look somewhere else for their 
butter and cheese.” 

Ass waited a moment to see if she’d 
done, 

And then, “Not presuming to 
teach,” he begun, 

“With submission, dear Madam, to 
your better wit, 

I own I am not quite convinced by 
it yet. 

“That you’re of great service to 
them is quite true, 

But surely they are of some service 
to you; 

’Tis their pleasant meadow in 
which you regale, 

They feed you in winter when grass 
and weeds fail. 

“And then a warm covert they al¬ 
ways provide, 

Dear Madam, to shelter your deli¬ 
cate hide. 

For my own part, I know I receive 
much from man, 

And for him, in return, I do all I 
can. ’ ’ 

The cow, upon this, cast her eyes on 
the grass, 

Not pleased at thus being reproved 
by an ass; 

“Yet,” thought she, “I’m deter¬ 
mined I ’ll benefit by ’t; 

I really believe that the fellow is 
right!” 


BEASTS, BIRDS AND FISHES. 

The Dog will come when he is called, 
The Cat will walk away; 

The Monkey’s cheek is very bald; 

The Goat is full of play. 

The Parrot is a prate-apace, 

Yet knows not what he says; 

The noble horse will win the race, 

Or draw you in a chaise. 

The Pig is not a feeder nice, 

The Squirrel loves a nut; 

The Wolf would eat you in a trice, 
The Buzzard’s eyes are shut. 

The Lark sings high up in the air, 
The Linnet in the tree; 

The Swan he has a bosom fair, 

And who so proud as he? 

Oh, yes, the Peacock is more proud, 
Because his tail has eyes. 

The Lion roars so very loud, 

He’d fill you with surprise. 

The Raven’s coat is shining black, 

Or, rather, raven-grey. 

The Camel’s hump is on his back, 

The Owl abhors the day. 

The Sparrow steals the cherry ripe, 
The Elephant is wise; 

The Blackbird charms you with his 
pipe, 

The false Hyena cries. 

The Hen guards well her little chicks, 
The useful Cow is meek; 

The Beaver builds with mud and 
sticks; 

The Lap-wing loves to squeak. 

The little Wren is very small, 

The Humming-bird is less; 

The Lady-bird is least of all, 

And beautiful in dress. 

The Pelican, she loves her young; 

The Stork, his father loves; 

The Woodcock’s bill is very long, 

And innocent are Doves. 


Jane Taylor. 


53 


Rhymes for 

The spotted Tiger’s fond of blood, 

The Pigeons feed on peas; 

The Duck will gobble in the mud, 

The Mice will eat your cheese. 

A Lobster’s black, when boil’d lie’s 
red; 

The harmless Lamb must bleed; 

The Codfish has a clumsy head, 

The Goose on grass will feed. 

The lady in her gown of silk 
The little Worm may thank; 

The rich man drinks the Ass’s milk; 

The Weasel’s long and lank. 

The Buck gives us a ven ’son dish, 
When hunted for the spoil; 

The Shark eats up the little fish; 

The Whale produces oil. 

The Glow-worm shines the darkest 
night, 

With lantern in his tail; 

The Turtle is the cit’s delight— 

It wears a coat of mail. 

In Germany they hunt the Boar, 

The Bee brings honey home; 

The Ant lays up a winter store; 

The Bear loves honey-comb. 

The Eagle has a crooked beak, 

The Plaice has orange spots; 

The Starling, if lie’s taught, will 
speak; 

The Ostrich walks and trots. 

The child that does not know these 
things 

May yet be called a dunce; 

But I will up in knowledge grow, 

As youth can come but once. 

Adelaide O’Keeffe. 

CHILD'S SONG IN SPRING. 

The silver birch is a dainty lady, 

She wears a satin gown; 

The elm tree makes the old church¬ 
yard shady, 

She will not live in town. 


Little Ones 

The English oak is a sturdy fellow, 

He gets his green coat late; 

The willow is smart in a suit of yel¬ 
low, 

While brown the beech trees wait. 

Such a gay green gown God gives the 
larches— 

As green as He is good! 

The hazels hold up their arms for 
arches 

When Spring rides through the 
wood. 

The chestnut’s proud, and the lilac’s 
pretty, 

The poplar’s gentle and tall, 

But the plane tree’s kind to the poor 
dull city— 

I love him best of all! 

Edith Nesbit. 

THE BIRD-CATCHER. 

The cat’s at the window, and Shock’s 
at the door; 

The pussy-cat mews, and the little 
dog barks; 

For see! such a sight as I ne’er saw 
before— 

A boy with a cage full of linnets 
and larks! 

And pussy the way how to catch them 
is seeking, 

To kill them, and spoil all their 
singing, poor things! 

For singing to them is like little boys 
speaking, 

But fear makes them chirrup and 
flutter their wings. 

Do not fear, pretty birds! for puss 
shall not eat you; 

Go, go, naughty pussy! away out of 
sight. 


Poems for Children 


54 

With crumbs of good bread, pretty 
birds! we will treat you, 

And give you fresh water both 
morning and night. 

Elizabeth Turner. 


THE OAK. • 

Observe, dear George, this nut so 
small; 

The Acorn is its name; 

Would you suppose yon tree so tall 
From such a tribe came? 

i 

The Acorn, buried in the earth, 

When many years are past 
Becomes the oak of matchless worth, 
Whose strength will ages last. 

In Summer, pleasant is its shade, 

But greater far its use; 

The wood which forms our ships for 
trade 

Its body can produce. 

And many other things beside, 

I cannot now explain; 

For where its merits have been tried, 
They were not tried in vain. 

Mary Elliott. 


THE CROCUS. 

Matilda, come hither, I pray. 

There is something peeps out of the 
snow; 

It is yellow, and looks, I should say, 
Like a bud that is ready to blow. 

But surely, in weather so cold, 

It could not survive half an hour; 
Little bud, you must be very bold 
To expect at this season to flower. 


Yet this bold little bud which you see, 
Though expos’d to the keen, frosty 
air, 

Will still keep its yellow head free, 
And bloom without trouble or care. 

To our thanks it has surely a claim; 

I rejoice when I see it appear; 

The kind Crocus, for that is its name, 
Announces that springtime is near. 

Mary Elliott. 

THE WIND’S SONG. 

0 winds that blow across the sea, 
What is the story that you bring? 
Leaves clap their hands on every tree 
And birds about their branches 
sing. 

You sing to flowers and trees and 
birds 

Your sea-songs over all the land. 
Could you not stay and whisper words 
A little child might understand? 

The roses nod to hear you sing; 

But though I listen all the day, 

You never tell me anything 
Of father’s ship so far away. 

Its masts are taller than the trees; 

Its sails are silver in the sun; 
There’s not a ship upon the seas 
So beautiful as father’s one. 

With wings spread out it flies so fast 
It leaves the waves all white with 
foam. 

Just whisper to me, blowing past, 

If you have seen it sailing home. 

I feel your breath upon my cheek, 
And in my hair, and on my brow. 
Dear winds, if you could only speak, 
I know that you would tell me now. 


Rhymes for Little Ones 55 


My father’s coming home, you’d say, 
With precious presents, one, two, 
three; 

A shawl for mother, beads for May, 
And eggs and shells for Rob and 
me. 

The winds sing songs where’er they 
roam : 

The leaves all clap their little 
hands; 

For father’s ship is coming home 
With wondrous things from foreign 
lands. 

Gabriel Setoun. 


THE WIND AND THE MOON. 

Said the Wind to the Moon, “I will 
blow you out; 

You stare 
In the air 

Like a ghost in a chair, 

Always looking what I am about— 

I hate to be watched: I’ll blow you 
out.” 

The Wind blew hard, and out went 
t lie Moon. 

So, deep 

O11 a heap 

Of clouds to sleep, 

Down lay the Wind, and slumbered 
soon, 

Muttering low, “I’ve done foi v that 
Moon. ’ ’ 

He turned in his bed; she was there 
again! 

On high 
In the sky, 

With her one ghost eye, 

The Moon shone white and alive and 
plain. 

Said the Wind, “I will blow you out 
again. ’ ’ 


The Wind blew hard, and the Moon 
grew dim. 

“With my sledge, 

And my wedge, 

I have knocked off her edge! 

If only I blow right fierce and grim, 

The creature will soon be dimmer 
than dim.” 

He blew and he blew, and she thinned 
to a thread. 

“One puff 
More’s enough 
To blow her to snuff! 

One good puff more where the last 
was bred, 

And glimmer, glimmer, glum will go 
the thread.” 

He blew a great blast, and the thread 
was gone. 

In the air 
Nowhere 

Was a moonbeam bare; 

Far off and harmless the shy stars 
shone— 

Sure and certain the Moon was gone! 

The Wind he took to his revels once 
more; 

On down, 

In town, 

Like a merry-mad clown, 

Ho leaped and halloed with whistle 
and roar— 

“What’s that?” The glimmering 
thread once more! 

He flew in a rage—he danced and 
blew; 

But in vain 

Was the pain 

Of his bursting brain; 

For still the broader the Moon-scrap 
grew, 

The broader he swelled his big cheeks 
and blew. 


Poems for Children 


56 

Slowly she grew—till she filled the 
night, 

And shone 
On her throne 
In the sky alone, 

A matchless, wonderful silvery light, 

Radiant and lovely, the queen of the 
night. 

Said the Wind: “What a marvel of 
power am I! 

With my breath, 

Good faith! 

I blew her to death— 

First blew her away right out of the 
sky— 

Then blew her in; what strength 
have I!” 

But the Moon she knew nothing about 
the affair; 

For high 
In the sky, 

With her one white eye, 

Motionless, miles above the air, 

She had never heard the great Wind 
blare. 

George Macdonald. 


THE FARM. 

Bright glows the east with blushing 
red, 

While yet upon their wholesome bed 
The sleeping labourers rest; 

And the pale moon and silver star 
Grow paler still, and wandering far, 
Sink slowly to the west. 

And see behind the sloping hill, 

The morning clouds grow brighter 
still, 

And all the shades retire; 

Slowly the sun with golden ray, 
Breaks forth above the horizon grey, 
And gilds the distant snire. 


And now, at Nature’s cheerful voice, 
The hills, and vales, and woods re¬ 
joice, 

The lark ascends the skies; 

And soon the cock’s shrill notes alarm 
The sleeping people at the farm, 

And bid them all arise. 

Then at the dairy’s cool retreat, 

The busy maids together meet; 

The careful mistress sees 
Some tend with skilful hand the 
churns, 

While the thick cream to butter turns, 
And some the curdling cheese. 

And now comes Thomas from the 
house, 

With well-known cry, to call the cows, 
Still sleeping on the plain; 

They quickly rising, one and all, 
Obedient to their daily call, 

Wind slowly through the lane. 

And see the rosy milkmaid now, 
Seated beside the horned cow, 

With milking stool and pail; 

The patient cow with dappled hide 
Stands still, unless to lash her side 
With her convenient tail. 

And then the poultry (Mary’s 
charge), 

Must all be fed and let at large, 

To roam about again; 

Wide open swings the great barn¬ 
door, 

And out the hungry creatures pour, 
To pick the scattered grain. 

Forth plodding to the heavy plough, 
The sun-burnt labourer hastens now, 
To guide with skilful arm; 

Thus all is industry around, 

No idle hand is ever found 
Within the busy farm. 

Jane Taylor. 


Rhymes for Little Ones 


THE PIPER ON THE HILL. 

(A Child's Song.) 

There sits a piper on the hill 
Who pipes the livelong day, 

And when he pipes both lond and 
shrill, 

The frightened people say: 

‘The wind, the wind is blowing up 
’Tis rising to a gale.” 

The women hurry to the shore 
To watch some distant sail. 

The wind, the wind, the wind, the 
wind f 

Is blowing to a gale. 

But when he pipes all sweet and 
low, 

The piper on the hill, 

I hear the merry women go 

With laughter, loud and shrill: 

‘ The wind, the wind is coming south; 

’Twill blow a gentle day.” 

They gather on the meadow-land 
To toss the yellow hay. 

The windy the wind, the wind, the 
wind. 

Is blowing south to-day. 

And in the morn, when winter 
comes, 

To keep the piper warm, 

The little Angels shake their wings 
To make a feather storm: 

‘The snow, the snow has come at 
last!” 

The happy children call, 

And “ring around” they dance in 
glee, 

And watch the snowflakes fall. 
The wind, the wind, the wind, the 
wind. 

Has spread a snowy pall. 

But when at night the piper plays, 
I have not any fear, 

Because God’s windows open wide 
The pretty tune to hear; 


57 

And when each crowding spirit 
looks, 

From its star window-pane, 

A watching mother may behold 
Her little child again. 

The ivind, the ivind, the wind, the 
wind. 

May blow her home again. 

Dora Sigerson Shorter. 


LITTLE WHITE LILY. 

From “ Within and Without.” 

Little White Lily sat by a stone, 

Drooping and waiting till the sun 
shone. 

Little White Lily sunshine has fed; 

Little White Lily is lifting her head. 

Little White Lily said: “It is good, 

Little White Lily’s clothing and 
food. ’ ’ 

Little White Lily dressed like a bride! 

Shining with whiteness, and crowned 
beside! 

Little White Lily drooping with pain, 

Waiting and waiting for the wet rain, 

Little White Lily holdeth her cup; 

Rain is fast falling and filling it up. 

Little White Lily said: “Good again, 

When I am thirsty to have the nice 
rain. 

Now I am stronger, now I am cool; 

Heat cannot burn me, my veins are so 
full.” 

Little White Lily smells very sweet; 

On her head sunshine, rain at her 
feet. 

Thanks to the sunshine, thanks to the 
rain, 

Little White Lily is happy again. 

George Macdonald. 


Poems for Children 


58 

HOW THE LEAVES CAME DOWN. 

I’ll tell you how the leaves came 
down. 

The great Tree to his children 
said: 

“You’re getting sleepy, Yellow and 
Brown, 

Yes, very sleepy, little Red. 

It is quite time to go to bed.” 

“Ah!” begged each silly, pouting 
leaf, 

“Let us a little longer stay; 

Dear Father Tree, behold our grief! 

’Tis such a very pleasant day, 

We do not want to go away.” 

So, just for one more merry day 

To the great Tree the leaflets 
clung, 

Frolicked and danced, and had 
their way, 

Upon the autumn breezes swung, 

Whispering all their sports 
among— 

“Perhaps the great Tree will forget, 

And let us stay until the spring, 

If we all beg, and coax, and fret.” 

But the great Tree did no such 
thing; 

He smiled to hear them whisper¬ 
ing. 

“Come, children, all to bed,” he 
cried; 

And ere the leaves could urge 
their prayer, 

He shook his head, and far and 
wide, 

Fluttering and rustling every¬ 
where, 

Down sped the leaflets through 
the air. 


I saw them; on the ground they lay, 
Golden and red, a huddled 
swarm, 

Waiting till one from far away, 
White bedclothes heaped upon 
her arm, 

Should come to wrap them safe 
and warm. 

The great bare Tree looked down 
and smiled. 

“Goocl-night, dear little leaves,” 
he said. 

And from below each sleepy child 
Replied, ‘ ‘ Good-night, ’ ’ and mur¬ 
mured, 

“ It is so nice to go to bed! ’ ’ 

Susan Coolidge. 


THE MUFFIN-MAN’S BELL. 

“Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle”: ’tis the 
muffin-man you see: 

“Tinkle, tinkle,” says the muf¬ 
fin-man’s bell; 

“Any crumpets, any muffins, any 
cakes for your tea: 

There are plenty here to sell.” 

“Tinkle,” says the little bell, clear 
and bright; 

“Tinkle, tinkle,” says the muf¬ 
fin-man’s bell; 

We have had bread and milk for 
supper to-night, 

And some nice plum-cake as well. 

“Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,” says the lit¬ 
tle bell again, 

But it sounds quite far away; 

“If you don’t buy my muffins and 
my cakes, it is plain 

I must take them home to-day.” 

Ann Haivkshawe. 


59 


Rhymes tor Little Ones 


THE LETTER. 

When Sarah’s papa was from home 
a great way, 

She attempted to write him a letter 
one day, 

First ruling the paper—an excellent 
plan, 

In all proper order Miss Sarah began. 

She said she lamented sincerely to tell 

That her dearest mamma had been 
very unwell; 

That the story was long, but when he 
came back, 

He would hear of the shocking be¬ 
haviour of Jack. 

Though an error or two we by chance 
may detect, 

It was better than treating papa with 
neglect; 

For Sarah, when older, we know will 
learn better, 

And write single I with a capital 
letter. 

Elizabeth Turner. 

THE OLD KITCHEN CLOCK. 

Listen to the kitchen clock! 

To itself it ever talks, 

From its place it never walks; 

‘ ‘ Tick-tock—tick-tock! ’ ’ 

Tell me what it says. 

“I’m a very patient clock, 

Never moved by hope or fear, 
Though I’ve stood for many a 
year; 

Tick-tock—tick-tock! ’ ’ 

That is what it says. 

“I’m a very truthful clock: 

People say about the place, 
Truth is written on my face; 

Tick-tock—tick-tock! ’ ’ 

That is what it says. 


“I’m a very active clock, 

For I go while you’re asleep, 
Though you never take a peep; 

Tick-tock—tick-tock! ’ ’ 

That is what it says. 

“I’m a most obliging clock: 

If you wish to hear me strike, 
You may do it when you like; 

Tick-tock—tick-tock! ’ ’ 

That is what it says. 

What a talkative old clock! 

Let us see what it will do 
When the pointer reaches two; 

‘ ‘ Ding-ding! ’ ’—‘ ‘ tick-tock! ’ ’ 

That is what it says. 

Ann Hawksliawe. 

THE WILD WREATH. 

Only look at this nosegay of pretty 
wild flowers 

We have pluck’d from the hedges 
and banks; 

The fields are so full, we could gather 
for hours, 

And still see no space in their 
ranks. 

These Bluebells and Cowslips, how 
pleasant they look! 

And the Rose and the Violet, how 
gay! 

I think I must copy them into your 
book, 

For I’m sure you will like the wild 
spray. 

Here’s the Hawthorn so sweet, the 
Anemone too, 

Which loves ’neath the Hazels to 
grow; 

The Orchis, the Woodbine, the Speed¬ 
well so blue, 

And Stitchwort as white as the 


snow. 


6 o Poems for Children 


This bright yellow Butter-cup add to 
the wreath; 

And the Daisy I’ll place with the 
rest; 

Not hide it, but let it just peep out 
beneath, 

With its pretty tipped white and 
pink crest. 

And now we will tie them up tight 
with this string: 

Or stay—for this ribbon is neater; 
The pretty Wild Briar we’ve forgot¬ 
ten to bring— 

Now our nosegay we cannot make 
sweeter. 

Unknown. 

THE DANCING LESSON. 

‘‘Now, Miss Clara, point your toe— 
Look at me, and point it so. 

You know, my dear, I learnt to 
dance 

In that graceful country, France; 
And having been so nicely taught, 

I move, of course, as a lady ought. 
And only think how grand ’twill be 
To have it said you dance like me. 
So now, Miss Clara, point your 
toe— 

Look at me, and point it so.” 

Eliza Grove. 

A SWINGING SONG. 

Merry it is on a summer’s day, 

All through the meadows to wend 
away; 

To watch the brooks glide fast or 
slow, 

And the little fish twinkle down be¬ 
low; 

To hear the lark in the blue sky 
sing, 

Oh, sure enough, ’tis a merry 
thing— 

But ’tis merrier far to swing—to 
swing! 


Merry it is on a winter’s night 

To listen to tales of elf and sprite, 

Of caves and castles so dim and 
old— 

The dismallest tales that ever were 
told; 

And then to laugh, and then to 
sing, 

You may take my word is a merry 
thing— 

But ’tis merrier far to swing—to 
swing! 

Down with the hoop upon the 
green; 

Down with the ringing tambourine; 

Little heed for this or for that; 

Off with the bonnet, off with the 
hat! 

Away we go, like birds on the wing! 

Higher yet! higher yet! “Now for 
the King! ’ ’ 

This is the way we swing—we 
swing! 

Scarcely the bough bends, Claude is 
so light— 

Mount up behind him—there, that 
is right! 

Down bends the branch now! swing 
him away; 

Higher yet—higher yet—higher, I 
say! 

Oh, what a joy it is! Now let us 
sing, 

“A pear for the Queen—an apple 
for the King!” 

And shake the old tree as we swing 
—we swing! 

Mary Howitt. 

SILKWORMS. 

Jane, do you see these little dots, 

Which on this paper lie? 

They seem, just now, but trifling 
spots; 

Yet they will live and die. 


61 


Rhymes for Little Ones 


They shortly will begin to move, 

And silkworms is their name; 

My gown, your bonnet, too, my love, 
From such small creatures came. 

No doubt you think it very strange, 
And yet you know not all; 

How often in their shape they change, 
That once look’d like a ball. 

Plain as the outside may appear, 
How rich they are within! 

Who would suppose, to see them here, 
They such gay silk could spin? 

Mary Elliott. 


LITTLE DANDELION. 

Gay little Dandelion 
Lights up the meads, 
Swings on her slender foot, 
Telleth her beads. 

Lists to the robin’s note 
Poured from above, 

Wise little Dandelion 
Asks not for love. 

Cold lie the daisy banks 
Clothed but in green, 
Where in the days ago 
Bright hues were seen. 
Wild pinks are slumbering, 
Violets delay, 

True little Dandelion 
Greeteth the May. 

Brave little Dandelion, 

Fast falls the snow, 
Bending the daffodil’s 
Haughty head low. 

Under that fleecy tent, 
Careless of cold, 

Blithe little Dandelion 
Counteth her gold. 


Meek little Dandelion 
Groweth more fair, 

Till dies the amber dew 
Out from her hair. 

High rides the thirsty sun, 
Fiercely and high; 

Faint little Dandelion 
Closeth her eye. 

Pale little Dandelion, 

In her white shroud, 

Ileareth the angel-breeze 
Call from the cloud; 

Tiny plumes fluttering 
Make no delay; 

Little winged Dandelion 
Soareth away. 

Helen Barron Bostwick. 

A RULE FOR BIRDS’ NESTERS. 

The robin and the red-breast, 
The robin and the wren; 

If ye take out o’ their nest, 
Ye’ll never thrive agen! 

The robin and the red-breast, 
The martin and the swallow; 

If ye touch one o ’ their eggs, 
Bad luck will surely follow! 

Old Rhyme. 


THE BEASTS IN THE TOWER. 

Within the precincts of this yard, 
Each in his narrow confines barred, 
Dwells every beast that can be found 
On Afric or on Indian ground. 

How different was the life they led 
In those wild haunts where they were 
bred, 

To this tame servitude and fear! 
Enslaved by man, they suffer here. 


62 


Poems for Children 


In that uneasy, close recess 
Crouches a sleeping lioness; 

That next clen holds a bear; the next 
A wolf, by hunger ever vext; 

There, fiercer from the keeper’s lashes 
Ilis teeth the fell hyena gnashes; 
That creature on whose back abound 
Black spots upon a yellow ground 
A panther is, the fairest beast 
That haunteth in the spacious East. 
He, underneath a fair outside, 

Does cruelty and treachery hide. 

That cat-like beast that to and fro 
Restless as fire does ever go, 

As if his courage did resent 
His limbs in such confinement pent, 
That should their prey in forests take, 
And make the Indian jungles quake 
A tiger is. Observe how sleek 
And glossy smooth his coat; no streak 
On satin ever matched the pride 
Of that which marks his furry hide. 
How strong his muscles! he with ease 
Upon the tallest man could seize, 

In his large mouth away could bear 
him, 

And into thousand pieces tear him; 
Yet cabined so securely here, 

The smallest infant need not fear. 

That lovely creature next to him 
A lion is. Survey each limb. 

Observe the texture of his claws, 

The many thickness of those jaws; 
His mane that sweeps the ground in 
length, 

Like Samson’s locks betokening 
strength. 

In force and swiftness he excels 
Each beast that in the forest dwells; 
The savage tribes him king confess 
Throughout the howling wilderness. 
Woe to the hapless neighbourhood 
When he is pressed by want of food! 
Of man, or child, or bull, or horse 
He makes his prey; such is his force. 


A waste behind him he creates, 
Whole villages depopulates; 

Yet here, within appointed lines, 
How small a grate his rage coniines! 

This place, methinks, resembleth well 
The world itself in which we dwell. 
Perils and snares on every ground 
Like those wild beasts beset us round. 
But Providence their rage restrains; 
Our heaventy Keeper sets them 
chains; 

His goodness saveth every hour 
His darlings from the lion’s power. 

Charles and Mary Lamb. 

BUNCHES OF GRAPES. 

‘ 1 Bunches of grapes, ’ ’ says Timothy; 
‘ ‘ Pomegranates pink, ’ 5 says 

Elaine; 

“A junket of cream and a cranberry 
tart 

For me,” says Jane. 

“Love-in-a-mist,” says Timothy; 

“Primroses pale,” says Elaine; 
“A nosegay of pinks and mignonette 
For me,” says Jane. 

‘ ‘ Chariots of gold, ’ 9 says Timothy; 

“Silvery wings,” says Elaine; 
“A bumpity ride in a waggon of hay 
For me,” says Jane. 

Walter Rarnal. 

THE BLUE BOY IN LONDON. 

All in the morning early 
The Little Boy in Blue 
(The grass with rain is pearly) 

Has thought of something new. 

He saddled dear old Dobbin; 

He had but half a crown; 

And jogging, cantering, bobbing, 

He came to London town. 


6 3 


Rhymes for 

The sheep were in the meadows, 

The cows were in the corn, 

Beneath the city shadow 
At last he stood forlorn. 

He stood beneath Bow steeple, 

That is in London town; 

And tried to count the people 
As they went up and down. 

Oh! there was not a daisy, 

And not a buttercup; 

The air was thick and hazy, 

And Blue Boy gave it up. 

The houses, next, in London, 

He thought that he would count; 

But still the sum was undone, 

So great was the amount. 

He could not think of robbing— 

He had but half a crown; 

And so he mounted Dobbin, 

And rode back from the town. 

The sheep were in the meadows, 

And the cows were in the corn; 

Amid the evening shadows 
He stood where he was born. 

William Briglnty Rands. 


THE FARMER’S ROUND. 

First comes January, 

The sun lies very low; 

I see in the farmer’s yard 
The cattle feed on stro’, 

The weather being so cold, 

The snow lies on the ground. 

There will be another change of moon 
Before the year comes round. 

Next is February, 

So early in the spring: 

The farmer ploughs the fallows, 

The rooks their nests begin. 


Little Ones 

The little lambs appearing 
Now frisk in pretty play; 

I think upon the increase, 

And thank my God, to-day. 

March it is the next month, 

So cold and hard and drear: 

Prepare we now for harvest 
By brewing of strong beer. 

God grant that we who labour 
May see the reaping come, 

And drink and dance and welcome 
The happy Harvest Home. 

Next of months is April, 

When early in the morn 

The cheery farmer soweth 
To right and left the corn. 

The gallant team come after, 
A-smoothing of the land. 

May Heaven the farmer prosper 
Whate ’er he takes in hand. 

In May I go a-walking 
To hear the linnets sing, 

The blackbird and the throstle 
A-praising God the King. 

It cheers the heart to hear them, 
To see the leaves unfold, 

The meadows scattered over 
With buttercups of gold. 

Full early in the morning 
Awakes the summer sun, 

The month of June arriving, 

The cold and night are done. 

The Cuckoo is a fine bird, 

She whistles as she flies, 

And as she whistles “Cuckoo” 

The bluer grow the skies. 

Six months I now have named, 

The seventh is July. 

Come, lads and lasses, gather 
The scented hay to dry, 


Poems for Children 


64 

All full of mirth and gladness 
To turn it in the sun, 

And never cease till daylight sets, 
And all the work is done. 

August brings the harvest: 

The reapers now advance, 

Against their shining sickles 
The field stands little chance. 

“Well done!” exclaims the farmer, 
“This day is all men’s friend; 

We’ll drink and feast in plenty 
When we the harvest end.” 

By middle of September, 

The rake is laid aside, 

The horses wear the breeching, 

Rich dressing to provide; 

All things to do in season, 
Methinks is just and right. 

Now summer season’s over, 

The frosts begin at night. 

October leads in winter, 

The leaves begin to fall, 

The trees will soon be naked, 

No flowers left at all: 

The frosts will bite them sharply, 
The elm alone is green; 

In orchard piles of apples red 
For cider press are seen. 

The eleventh month, November, 

The nights are cold and long. 

By day we’re felling timber, 

And spend the night in song. 

In cozy chimney corner 
We take our toast and ale, 

And kiss and tease the maidens, 

Or tell a merry tale. 

Then comes dark December, 

The last of months in turn: 

With holly, box and laurel 
We house and church adorn. 


So now, to end my story, 

I wish you all good cheer, 

A merry, happy Christmas, 

A prosperous New Year. 

Old Song. 


“WHAT DOES LITTLE BIRDIE 
SAY? ” 

From “Sea Dreams 

What does little birdie say 
In her nest at peep of day ? 

Let me fly, says little birdie, 
Mother, let me fly away. 

Birdie, rest a little longer, 

Till the little wings are stronger. 
So she rests a little longer, 

Then she flies away. 

What does little baby say, 

In her bed at peep of day ? 

Baby says, like little birdie, 

Let me rise and fly away. 

Baby, sleep a little longer, 

Till the little limbs are stronger, 
If she sleeps a little longer, 

Baby too shall fly away. 

Alfred Tennyson. 


UNDER MY WINDOW. 

Under my window, under my window, 
All in the Midsummer weather, 
Three little girls with fluttering curls 
Flit to and fro together:— 

There’s Bell with her bonnet of satin 
sheen, 

And Maud with her mantle of silver- 
green, 

And Kate with her scarlet feather. 

Under my window, under my window, 
Leaning stealthily over, 

Merry and clear, the voice I hear 
Of each glad-hearted rover. 


65 


Rhymes for Little Ones 


Ah! sly little Kate, she steals my 
roses; 

And Maud and Bell twine wreaths 
and posies, 

As merry as bees in clover. 

Under my window, under my window, 

In the blue Midsummer weather, 

Stealing slow, on a hushed tiptoe, 

I catch them all together:— 

Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen, 

And Maud with her mantle of silver- 
green, 

And Kate with her scarlet feather. 

Under my window, under my window, 

And off through the orchard closes; 

While Maud she flouts, and Bell she 
pouts, 

They scamper and drop their posies; 

But dear little Kate takes naught 
amiss, 

And leaps in my arms with a loving 
kiss, 

And I give her all my roses. 

Thomas Westwood. 


OCTOBER’S PARTY. 

October gave a party; 

The leaves by hundreds came— 

The Chestnuts, Oaks, and Maples, 
And leaves of every name. 

The Sunshine spread a carpet, 

And everything was grand, 

Miss Weather led the dancing, 
Professor Wind the band. 

The Chestnuts came in yellow, 
The Oaks in crimson dressed; 

The lovely Misses Maple 
In scarlet looked their best; 

All balanced to their partners, 
And gaily fluttered by; 

The sight was like a rainbow 
New fallen from the sky. 


Then, in the rustic hollow, 

At hide-and-seek they played, 
The party closed at sundown, 
And everybody stayed. 
Professor Wind played louder; 

They flew along the ground; 
And then the party ended 
In jolly ‘‘hands around.’’ 

George Cooper. 


SUMMER DAYS. 

Winter is cold-hearted; 

Spring is yea and nay; 

Autumn is a weathercock, 

Blown every way: 

Summer days for me, 

When every leaf is on its tree, 

• 

When Robin’s not a beggar, 

And Jenny Wren’s a bride, 

And larks hang, singing, singing, 
singing, 

Over the wheat-fields wide, 

And anchored lilies ride, 

And the pendulum spider 
Swings from side to side, 

And blue-black beetles transact busi¬ 
ness, 

And gnats fly in a host, 

And furry caterpillars hasten 
That no time be lost, 

And moths grow fat and thrive, 

And ladybirds arrive. 

Before green apples blush, 

Before green nuts embrown, 

Why, one day in the country 
Is worth a month in town— 

Is worth a day and a year 
Of the dusty, musty, lag-last fashion 
That days drone elsewhere. 

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 


66 


Poems ior Children 


THE VOICE OF SPRING. 

I am coming, I am coming! 

Hark! the little bee is humming; 

See, the lark is soaring high 
In the blue and sunny sky; 

And the gnats are on the wing, 
Wheeling round in airy ring. 

See, the yellow catkins cover 
All the slender willows over! 

And on the banks of mossy green 
Star-like primroses are seen; 

And, their clustering leaves below, 
White and purple violets blow. 

Hark! the new-born lambs are bleat¬ 
ing, 

And the cawing rooks are meeting 
In the elms,—a noisy crowd; 

All the birds are singing loud; 

And the first white butterfly 
In the sunshine dances by. 

Look around thee, look around! 
Flowers in all the fields abound; 
Every running stream is bright; 

All the orchard trees are white; 

And each small and waving shoot 
Promises sweet flowers and fruit. 

Turn thine eyes to earth and heaven: 
God for thee the spring has given, 
Taught the birds their melodies, 
Clothed the earth, and cleared the 
skies, 

For thy pleasure or thy food: 

Pour thy soul in gratitude. 

Mary Howitt 


JACK FROST. 

The door was shut, as doors should be 
Before you went to bed last night; 
Yet Jack Frost has got in, you see, 
And left your window silver white. 


He must have waited till you slept; 

And not a single word he spoke, 
But pencilled o ’er the panes and crept 
Away again before you woke. 

And now you cannot see the hills 
Nor fields that stretch beyond the 
lane; 

But there are fairer things than these 
His fingers traced on every pane. 

Rocks and castles towering high; 
Hills and dales, and streams and 
fields; 

And knights in armour riding by, 
With nodding plumes and shining 
shields. 

And here are little boats, and there 
Big ships with sails spread to the 
breeze; 

And yonder, palm trees waving fair 
On islands set in silver seas. 

And butterflies with gauzy wings; 
And herds of cows and flocks of 
sheep; 

And fruit and flowers and all the 
things 

You see when you are sound asleep. 

For creeping softly underneath 
The door when all the lights are out, 
Jack Frost takes every breath you 
breathe, 

And knows the things you think 
about. 

He paints them on the window pane 
In fairy lines with frozen steam; 
And when you wake you see again 
The lovely things you saw in dream. 

Gabriel Setoun. 


6 7 


Rhymes for Little Ones 


THE USEFUL PLOUGH. 

A country life is sweet! 

In moderate cold and heat, 

To walk in the air, how pleasant and 
fair! 

In every field of wheat, 

The fairest of flowers adorning the 
bowers, 

And every meadow’s brow r ; 

To that I say, no courtier may 
Compare with they who clothe in 
gray, 

And follow the useful plough. 

They rise with the morning lark, 

And labour till almost dark, 

Then folding their sheep, they hasten 
to sleep; 

While every pleasant park 
Next morning is ringing with birds 
that are singing 

On each green, tender bough. 

With what content and merriment 
Their days are spent, whose minds 
are bent 

To follow the useful plough. 

Old Song. 

THE WATER MILL. 

‘ ‘ Any grist for the mill ? ’ 5 
How merrily it goes! 

Flap, flap, flap, flap, 

While the water flows. 

Round-about, and round-about, 

The heavy mill-stones grind, 

And the dust flies all about the mill, 
And makes the miller blind. 

‘‘Any grist for the mill?” 

The jolly farmer packs 

His wagon with a heavy load 
Of very heavy sacks. 

Noisily, oh noisily, 

The mill-stones turn about: 

You cannot make the miller hear 
Unless you scream and shout. 


“Any grist for the mill?” 

The bakers come and go; 

They bring their empty sacks to fill, 
And leave them down below\ 

The dusty miller and his men 
Fill all the sacks they bring, 

And while they go about their work 
Right merrily they sing. 

“Any grist for the mill?” 

How quickly it goes round! 
Splash, splash, splash, splash, 

With a whirring sound. 

Farmers, bring your corn to-day; 

And bakers, buy your flour; 
Dusty millers, work away, 

While it is in your power. 

“Any grist for the mill?” 

Alas! it will not go; 

The river, too, is standing still, 

The ground is white with snow. 
And when the frosty weather comes 
And freezes up the streams, 

The miller only hears the mill 
And grinds the corn in dreams. 

Living close beside the mill, 

The miller’s girls and boys 
Always play at make-believe, 
Because they have no toys. 

‘ ‘ Any grist for our mill ? ’ ’ 

The elder brothers shout, 

While all the little Petticoats 
Go whirling round about. 

The miller’s little boys and girls 
Rejoice to see the snow. 

“Good father, play with us to-day; 
You cannot work, you know. 

We will be the mill-stones, 

And you shall be the wheel; 
We’ll pelt each other with the snow. 
And it shall be the meal.” 


68 


Poems for Children 


Oh, heartily the miller’s wife 
Is laughing at the door: 

She never saw the mill worked 
So merrily before. 

“Bravely done, my little lads, 

Rouse up the lazy wheel, 

For money comes but slowly in 
When snow-flakes are the meal.” 

“Aunt Effie 


GOING INTO BREECHES. 

Joy to Philip! he this day 
Has his long coats cast away, 

And (the childish season gone), 

Puts the manly breeches on. 

Officer on gay parade, 

Red-coat in his first cockade, 
Bridegroom in his wedding trim, 
Birthday beau surpassing him, 

Never did with conscious gait 
Strut about in half the state, 

Or the pride (yet free from sin), 

Of my little Mannikin. 

Never was there pride, or bliss, 

Half so rational as his. 

Sashes, frocks, to those that need ’em, 
Philip’s limbs have got their freedom. 
He can run, or he can ride, 

And do twenty things beside, 

Which his petticoats forbade: 

Is he not a happy lad ? 

Now he’s under other banners, 

He must leave his former manners; 
Bid adieu to female games, 

And forget their very names: 
Puss-in-corners, hide-and-seek, 

Sports for girls and punies weak! 
Baste-the-bear he now may play at, 
Leap-frog, foot-ball, sport away at, 
Show his strength and skill at cricket, 
Mark his distance, pitch his wicket, 
Run about in winter’s snow 
Till his cheeks and fingers glow. 
Climb a tree, or scale a wall, 

Without any fear to fall. 


If he get a hurt or bruise, 

To complain he must refuse, 
Though the anguish and the smart 
Go unto his little heart. 

He must have his courage ready, 
Keep his voice and visage steady, 
Brace his eyeballs stiff as drum, 
That a tear may never come; 

And his grief must only speak 
From the colour in his cheek. 

This, and more, he must endure, 
Hero he in miniature! 

This and more, must now be done, 
Now the breeches are put on. 

Charles and Mary Lamb. 


LADY MOON. 

Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are 
you roving? 

“Over the sea.” 

Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are 
you loving? 

11 All that love me. ’ ’ 

Are you not tired with rolling, and 
never 

Resting to sleep? 

Why look so pale and so sad, as for¬ 
ever 

Wishing to weep? 

“Ask me not this, little child, if you 
love me: 

You are too bold: 

I must obey my dear Father above 
me, 

And do as I’m told.” 

Lady Moon, Lady Moon, where are 
you roving? 

“Over the sea.” 

Lady Moon, Lady Moon, whom are 
you loving? 

11 All that love me. ’ ’ 

Lord Houghton. 


Rhymes for Little Ones 


THE CASTLE BUILDER. 

It happened on a summer’s day, 

A country lass as fresh as May, 
Decked in a wholesome russet gown, 
Was going to the market town; 

So blithe her looks, so simply clean, 
You’d take her for a May-day queen; 
Though for her garland, says the tale, 
Her head sustained a loaded pail. 

As on her way she passed along, 

She hummed the fragments of a song; 
She did not hum for* want of thought— 
Quite pleased with what to sale she 
brought, 

She reckoned by her own account, 
When all was sold, the whole amount. 
Thus she—‘ ‘ In time this little ware 
May turn to great account, with care: 
My milk being sold for—so and so, 
I’ll buy some eggs as markets go, 

And set them;—at the time I fix, 
These eggs will bring as many chicks; 
I ’ll spare no pains to feed them well; 
They’ll bring vast profit when they 
sell. 

With this, I’ll buy a little pig, 

And when ’tis grown up fat and big, 
I’ll sell it, whether boar or sow, 

And with the money buy a cow: 

This cow will surely have a calf, 

And there the profit’s half in half; 
Besides there’s butter, milk, and 
cheese, 

To keep the market when I please: 
All which I’ll sell, and buy a farm, 
Then shall of sweethearts have a 
swarm. 

Oh! then for ribands, gloves, and 
rings! 

Ay! more than twenty pretty things— 
One brings me this, another that, 

And I shall have—I know not what! ’ ’ 

Fired with the thought—the sanguine 
lass!— 

Of what was thus to come to pass, 


69 

Her heart beat strong; she gave a 
bound, 

And down came milk-pail on the 
ground: 

Eggs, fowls, pig, hog (ah, well-a-day!) 

Cow, calf, and farm—all swam away! 

Jean de La Fontaine. 

OF WHAT ARE YOUR CLOTHES 
MADE? 

Come here to papa, and I’ll tell my 
dear boy, 

(For I think he would never have 
guessed), 

How many animals we must employ, 

Before little Charles can be dressed. 

The pretty Sheep gives you the wool 
from his sides, 

To make you a jacket to use; 

And the Dog or the Seal must be 
stripp’d of their hides, 

To give you these nice little shoes. 

And then the shy Beaver contributes 
his share 

With the Rabbit, to give you a hat; 

For this must be made of their deli¬ 
cate hair, 

And so you may thank them for 
that. 

All these I have mentioned, and many 
more too, 

Each willingly gives us a share, 

One sends us a hat and another a shoe, 

That we may have plenty to wear. 

Then as the poor creatures are suf¬ 
fered to give 

So much for the comfort of man, 

I think ’tis but right, that as long as 
they live 

We should do all for them that we 
can. 


Ann and Jane Taylor. 


Poems for Children 


7 ° 

GEORGE AND THE CHIMNEY¬ 
SWEEPER. 

IIis petticoats now George cast off, 
For he was four years old; 

His trousers were nankeen so fine, 
His buttons bright as gold. 

“May I,” said little George, “go out, 
My pretty clothes to show ? 

May I, papa? may I, mamma?” 

The answer was—“No, no.” 

“Go, run below, George; in the court, 
But go not in the street, 

Lest naughty boys should play some 
trick, 

Or gipsies you should meet.” 

Yet, tho’ forbade, George went un¬ 
seen, 

That other boys might spy; 

And all admir’d him when he lisp’d— 
“Now, who so fine as I?” 

But whilst he strutted to and fro, 

So proud, as I’ve heard tell, 

A sweep-boy pass’d, whom to avoid 
He slipp’d, and down he fell. 

The sooty lad was kind and good, 

To Georgy boy he ran, 

He rais’d him up, and kissing, said, 

‘ ‘ Hush, hush, my little man! ’ ’ 

He rubb’d and wip’d his clothes with 
care, 

And hugging, said, “Don’t cry! 
Go home as quick as you can go; 

Sweet little boy, good-bye.” 

Poor George look’d down, and lo! his 
dress 

Was blacker than before; 

All over soot, and mud, and dirt, 

He reach’d his father’s door. 

He sobb’d, and wept, and look’d 
a sham’d, 

His fault he did not hide; 

And since so sorry for his fault, 
Mamma forbore to chide. 


That night, when he was gone to bed, 
He jump’d up in his sleep, 

And cried and sobb’d, and cried 
again, 

“I thought I saw the sweep!” 

Adelaide O'Keeffe. 


NEATNESS IN APPAREL. 

In your garb and outward clothing 
A reserved plainness use; 

By their neatness more distinguished, 
Than the brightness of their hues. 

All the colours in the rainbow 

Serve to spread the peacock’s train; 
Half the lustre of his feathers 
Would turn twenty coxcombs vain. 

Yet the swan that swims in rivers, 
Pleases the judicious sight; 

Who, of brighter colours heedless, 
Turns alone to simple white. 

Yet all other hues compared 
AVith his whiteness show amiss; 

And the peacock’s coat of colours 
Like a fool’s coat looks by his. 

Charles and Mary Lamb. 

THE LARK AND THE ROOK. 

* ‘ Good-night, Sir Rook! ’ ’ said a little 
lark. 

“The daylight fades; it will soon be 
dark; 

I’ve bathed my wings in the sun’s 
last ray; 

I’ve sung my hymn to the parting 
day; 

So now I haste to my quiet nook 
In yon dewy meadow—good-night, 
Sir Rook! ’ ’ 


Rhymes for Little Ones 


“Good-night, poor Lark,” said his 
titled friend, 

With a haughty toss and a distant 
bend; 

“I also go to my rest profound, 

But not to sleep on the cold, damp 
ground. 

The fittest place for a bird like me 

Is the topmost bough of yon tall 
pine-tree. 

‘ ‘ I opened my eyes at peep of day 

And saw you taking your upward 
way, 

Dreaming your fond romantic 
dreams, 

An ugly speck in the sun’s bright 
beams; 

Soaring too high to be seen or 
heard; 

And I said to myself: ‘What a fool¬ 
ish bird!’ 

“I trod the park with a princely air, 

I filled my crop with the richest 
fare; 

I cawed all day ’mid a lordly crew, 

And I made more noise in the world 
than you! 

The sun shone forth on my ebon 
wing; 

I looked and wondered—good-night, 
poor thing!” 

“Good-night, once more,” said the 
lark’s sweet voice. 

“I see no cause to repent my choice; 

You build your nest in the lofty 
pine, 

But is your slumber more sweet 
than mine? 

You make more noise in the world 
than I, 

But whose is the sweeter min¬ 
strelsy?” 


7 1 

ANOTHER PLUM-CAKE. 

“On! I’ve got a plum-cake, and a 
feast let us make; 

Come, schoolfellows, come at my 
call; 

I assure you ’tis nice, and we’ll each 
have a slice, 

Here’s more than enough for us 
all.” 

Thus said little Jack, as he gave it a 
smack, 

And sharpen’d his knife to begin; 

Nor was there one found, upon the 
play-ground, 

So cross that he would not come in. 

With masterly strength he cut through 
it at length, 

And gave to each playmate a share: 

Charles, William, and James, and 
many more names, 

Partook his benevolent care. 

And when it was done, and they’d 
finished their fun, 

To marbles or hoop they went back; 

And each little boy felt it always a 

joy, 

To do a good turn for good Jack. 

In his task and his book, his best 
pleasures he took, 

And as he thus wisely began, 

Since he’s been a man grown he has 
constantly shown 

That a good boy will make a good 

man. 

Ann and Jane Taylor. 


CLEANLINESS. 

Come, my little Robert, near— 
Fie! what filthy hands are here— 
Who that e’er could understand 
The rare structure of a hand, 


Unknown. 


72 


Poems for Children 


With its branching fingers fine, 

Work itself of hands divine, 

Strong yet delicately knit, 

For ten thousand uses fit, 

Overlaid with so clear skin, 

And the curious palm, disposed 
In such lines, some have supposed 
You may read the fortunes there 
By the figures that appear; 

Who this hand would choose to cover 
With a crust of dirt all over, 

Till it looked in hue and shape 
Like the fore-foot of an ape ? 

Man or boy that works or plays 
In the fields or the highways, 

May, without offence or hurt, 

From the soil contract a dirt, 

Which the next clear spring or river 
Washes out and out for ever; 

But to cherish stains impure, 

Soil deliberate to endure, 

On the skin to fix a stain 
Till it works into the grain, 

Argues a degenerate mind, 

Sordid, slothful, ill-inclined, 

Wanting in that self-respect 
Which does virtue best protect. 

All-endearing cleanliness, 

Virtue next to godliness, 

Easiest, cheapest, needful ’st duty, 

To the body health and beauty, 

Who that’s human would refuse it, 
When a little water does it ? 

Charles and Mary Lamb. 

A SHOOTING SONG. 

To shoot, to shoot, would be my de¬ 
light, 

To shoot the cats that howl in the 
night; 

To shoot the lion, the wolf, the bear, 
To shoot the mad dogs out in the 
square. 


I learnt to shoot with a pop-gun good, 

Made out of a branch of elder wood; 

It was round, and long, full half a 
yard, 

The plug was strong, the pellets were 
hard. 

i 

I should like to shoot with a bow of 

yew, 

As the English at Agincourt used to 
do; 

The strings of a thousand bows went 
twang, 

And a thousand arrows whizzed and 
sang! 

On Hounslow Heath I should like to 
ride, 

With a great horse-pistol at my side: 

It is dark—hark! A robber, I know! 

Click! crick-crack! and away we go! 

I will shoot with a double-barrelled 
gun, 

Two bullets are better than only one; 

I Avill shoot some rooks to put in a pie; 

I will shoot an eagle up in the sky. 

I once shot a bandit—in a dream— 

In a mountain pass I heard a scream; 

I rescued the lady, and set her free, 

“Do not fear, madam, lean on me!” 

With a boomerang I could not aim; 

A poison blow-pipe would be the 
same; 

A double-barrelled is my desire, 

Get out of the way—one, two, three, 
fire! 

William Briylity Bands. 

RUDENESS. 

James went to the door of the 
kitchen and said, 

“Cook, give me this moment some 
honey and bread; 


Rhymes for Little Ones 


Then fetch me a glass or a cup of 
good beer, 

Why, cook, you don’t stir, and I’m 
sure you must hear! ’ ’ 

“Indeed, Master James,” was the 
cook’s right reply, 

“To answer such language I feel 
rather shy, 

I hear you quite plainly, but wait 
till you choose 

To civilly ask, when I shall not re¬ 
fuse. ’ ’ 

What pity young boys should in¬ 
dulge in this way, 

Whilst knowing so well what is 
proper to say; 

As if civil words, in a well-man¬ 
ner’d tone, 

Were learned to be us’d in the par¬ 
lour alone! 

Elizabeth Turner. 


THE PEDDLER’S CARAVAN. 

I wish I lived in a caravan, 

With a horse to drive, like a peddler- 
man ! 

Where he comes from nobody knows, 

Or where he goes to, but on he goes! 

His caravan has windows two, 

And a chimney of tin, that the smoke 
comes through ; 

He has a wife, with a baby brown, 

And they go riding from town to 
town. 

Chairs to mend, and delf to sell! 

He clashes the basins like a bell; 

Tea-trays, baskets ranged in order, 

Plates, with alphabets round the 
border! 


73 

The roads are brown, and the sea is 
green, 

But his house is like a bathing-ma¬ 
chine ; 

The world is round, and he can ride, 

Rumble and slash, to the other side! 

With the peddler-man I should like to 
roam, 

And write a book when I came home; 

All the people would read my book, 

Just like the Travels of Captain Cook! 

William Brighty Rands. 


MY LADY WIND. 

My Lady Wind, my Lady Wind, 
Went round about the house to find 
A chink to set her foot in; 

She tried the ke3~hole in the door, 

She tried the crevice in the floor, 

And drove the chimney soot in. 

And then one night when it was dark, 
She blew up such a tiny spark 
That all the town was bothered; 
From it she raised such flame and 
smoke 

That many in great terror woke, 

And many more were smothered. 

And thus when once, my little dears, 
A whisper reaches itching ears— 

The same will come, you ’ll find: 
Take my advice, restrain the tongue, 
Remember what old nurse has sung 
Of busy Lady Wind. 

Unknown. 


THE CITY CHILD. 

Dainty little maiden, whither would 
you wander? 

Whither from this pretty home, the 
home where mother dwells? 


Poems for Children 


74 

‘ ‘ Far and far away, ’ ’ said the dainty 
little maiden, 

‘‘All among the gardens, auriculas, 
anemones, 

Roses and lilies and Canterbury 
bells. ’’ 

Dainty little maiden, whither would 
you wander ? 

Whither from this pretty house, this 
city-house of ours? 

‘‘ Far and far away, ’ ’ said the dainty 
little maiden, 

“All among the meadows, the clover 
and the clematis, 

Daisies and kingcups and honey¬ 
suckle-flowers. ’ ’ 

Alfred Tennyson. 


THANKSGIVING DAY. 

Over the river and through the wood, 
To grandfather’s house we go; 

The horse knows the way 
To carry the sleigh 
Through the white and drifted 
snow. 

Over the river and through the 
wood—- 

Oh, how the wind does blow! 

It stings the toes 
And bites the nose, 

As over the ground we go. 

Over the river and through the wood, 
To have a first-rate play. 

Hear the bells ring, 

* ‘ Ting-a-ling-ding! ’ ’ 

Hurrah for Thanksgiving Day! 

Over the river and through the wood 
Trot fast, my dapple-gray! 

Spring over the ground, 

Like a hunting-hound! 

For this is Thanksgiving Day. 


Over the river and through the wood, 

And straight through the barn¬ 
yard gate. 

We seem to go 

Extremely slow,— 

It is so hard to wait! 

Over the river and through the 
wood— 

Now grandmother’s cap I spy! 

Hurrah for the fun! 

Is the pudding done? 

Hurrah for the pumpkin-pie! 

Lydia Maria Child. 

SIR LARK AND KING SUN. 

From “Adela Cat heart.” 

‘ ‘ Good-morrow, my lord! ” in the sky 
alone, 

Sang the lark, as the sun ascended 
his throne. 

‘Shine on me, my lord; I only am 
come, 

Of all your servants, to welcome 
you home. 

I have flown right up, a whole hour, 
I swear, 

To catch the first shine of your 
golden hair.” 

“Must I thank you, then,” said the 
king, “Sir Lark, 

For flying so high and hating the 
dark ? 

You ask a full cup for half a thirst : 

Half was love of me, and half love 
to be first. 

There’s many a bird makes no such 
haste, 

But waits till I come: that’s as 
much to my taste. ’ ’ 

And King Sun hid his head in a 
turban of cloud, 

And Sir Lark stopped singing, 
quite vexed and cowed. 


Rhymes for Little Ones 


But he flew up higher, and thought, 
‘ ‘ Anon 

The wrath of the king will be over 
and gone; 

And his crown, shining out of its 
cloudy fold, 

Will change my brown feathers to 
a glory of gold.” 

So he flew—with the strength of a 
lark he flew; 

But, as he rose, the cloud rose too; 

And not one gleam of the golden 
hair 

Came through the depths of the 
misty air; 

Till, weary with flying, with sigh¬ 
ing sore, 

The strong sun-seeker could do no 
more. 

His wings had had no chrism of 
gold: 

And his feathers felt withered and 
worn and old; 

He faltered, and sank, and dropped 
like a stone. v 

And there on her nest, where he 
left her, alone 

Sat his little wife on her little eggs, 

Keeping them warm with wings 
and legs. 

Did I say alone? Ah, no such 
thing! 

Full in her face was shining the 
king. 

‘Welcome, Sir Lark! You look 
tired,” said he; 

‘Up is not always the best way to 
me. 

While you have been singing so 
high and away, 

I’ve been shining to your little wife 
all day. ’ ’ 


75 

He had set his crown all about the 
nest, 

And out of the midst shone her 
little brown breast; 

And so glorious was she in russet 
gold, 

That for wonder and awe Sir Lark 
grew cold. 

He popped his head under her 
wing, and lay 

As still as a stone, till King Sun 
was away. 

George Macdonald. 

MINNIE AND WINNIE. 

Minnie and Winnie slept in a shell. 

Sleep, little ladies! And they slept 
well. 

Pink was the shell within, silver 
without; 

Sounds of the great sea wandered 
about. 

Sleep, little ladies! Wake not soon! 

Echo on echo dies to the moon. 

Two bright stars peeped into the 
shell. 

“What are they dreaming of? Who 
can tell?” 

Started a green linnet out of the 
croft; 

Wake, little ladies! The sun is 
aloft. 

Alfred Tennyson. 

FOOLISH EMILY AND HER 
KITTEN. 

“Why not open your eyes, 
And look with surprise 

Around, up and down, and on us? 
And why won’t you see, 

And look upon me? 

Come, open your eyes, little puss! 


Poems for Children 



“I know you can peep, 

For you’re not asleep, 

You cry after mother so loud; 

Your eyes I’ve not seen, 

Are they blue, red, or green ? 

I fear you are sulky and proud! 

“And if you will not 
On this very spot 

Lift your eyelids and look upon me, 
I’ll open them quick. 

Whilst my hand you may lick, 
And soon then my kitten will see!” 

But her brother cried, ‘ ‘ Hold! ’ ’ 
And must you be told 
That kittens, like pups, are born 
blind ? 

You silly young child,” 

He said as he smiled, 

“Be patient, and if you are kind, 

“Not many days hence 
That precious dear sense 
Of sight will your kitten enjoy,— 
Then let it alone, 

Altho’ ’tis your own, 

Or its eyes you will surely destroy.” 

Altho’ ’twas her own 
She let it alone, 

But watch'd every day if ’twas 
true, 

And often she sighed, 

But one morning she cried, 

‘ ‘ Oh, look at its eyes of bright blue! ” 

Adelaide O’Keeffe. 

MISS SOPHIA. 

Miss Sophy, one fine sunny day, 

Left her work and ran away; 

When soon she reach’d the garden- 
< gate, 

Which finding lock’d, she would not 
wait, 

But tried to climb and scramble o’er 
A gate as high as any door. 


But little girls should never climb, 
And Sophy won't another time; 

For when upon the highest rail, 

Her frock was caught upon a nail, 
She lost her head, and, sad to tell, 
Was hurt and bruised—for down she 
fell. 

Elizabeth Turner. 


NIMBLE DICK. 

My boy, be cool, do things by rule, 
And then you’ll do them right; 

A story true I’ll tell to you 
'Tis of a luckless wight. 

He’d never wait, was ever late, 
Because he was so quick, 

This shatter-brain did thus obtain 
The name of Nimble Dick. 

All in his best young Dick was drest, 
Cries he, “I’m very dry!” 

Though glass and jug, and china mug, 
On sideboard stood hard by— 

With skip and jump unto the pump, 
With open mouth he goes; 

The water out ran from the spout, 
And wetted all his clothes. 

All in dispatch he made a match 
To run a race with Bill; 

“My boy,” said he, “I’ll win, you’ll 
see; 

I’ll beat you, that I will.” 

With merry heart, now off they start, 
Like ponies in full speed; 

Soon Bill he pass’d, for very fast 
This Dicky ran indeed. 

But hurry all, Dick got a fall, 

And whilst he sprawling lay, 

Bill reached the post, and Dicky lost, 
And Billy won the day. 


77 


Rhymes for Little Ones 


“Bring here my pad,” now cries the 
lad 

Unto the servant John; 

‘ ‘ I ’ll mount astride, this day I ’ll ride, 
So put the saddle on.” 

No time to waste, ’twas brought in 
haste, 

Dick long’d to have it back’d; 

With spur and boot on leg and foot, 
His whip he loudly cracked. 

The mane he grasped, the crupper 
clasped, 

And leaped up from the ground, 

All smart and spruce: the girt was 
loose, 

He turned the saddle round. 

Then down he came, the scoff and 
shame 

Of all the standers by; 

Poor Dick, alack! upon his back, 
Beneath the horse did lie. 

Still slow and sure, success secure, 
And be not over quick; 

For method’s sake, a warning take 
From hasty Nimble Dick. 

Adelaide O’Keeffe. 


THE STORY OF AUGUSTUS WHO 
WOULD NOT HAVE ANY SOUP. 

Augustus was a chubby lad; 

Fat ruddy cheeks Augustus had; 

And everybody saw with joy, 

The plump and hearty healthy boy. 
He ate and drank as he was told, 

And never let his soup get cold. 

But one day, one cold winter’s day, 

He scream’d out—*‘Take the soup 
away! 

0 take the nasty soup away! 

I won’t have any soup to-day! ’ ’ 


How lank and lean Augustus grows! 
Next day he scarcely fills his clothes, 
Yet, though he feels so weak and ill, 
The naughty fellow cries out still— 
“Not any soup for me, I say: 

O take the nasty soup away! 

I won’t have any soup to-day!” 

The third day comes; oh! what a sin! 
To make himself so pale and thin. 
Yet, when the soup is put on table, 

He screams, as loud as he is able, 
“Not any soup for me, I say: 

O take the nasty soup away! 

I won’t have any soup to-day!” 

Look at him, now the fourth day’s 
come! 

He scarcely weighs a sugar-plum; 
He’s like a little bit of thread, 

And on the fifth day he was—dead! 

Heinrich Hoffmann . 


THE COURTSHIP, MERRY MAR- 
RIAGE, AND PICNIC DINNER 
OF COCK ROBIN AND 
JENNY WREN. 

It was a merry time 

When Jenny Wren was young, 

So neatly as she danced, 

And so sweetly as she sung, 

Robin Redbreast lost his heart: 

He was a gallant bird; 

He doffed his hat to Jenny, 

And thus to her he said:— 

“My dearest Jenny Wren, 

If you will but be mine, 

You shall dine on cherry pie, 

And drink nice currant wine. 

I’ll dress you like a Goldfinch, 

Or like a Peacock gay; 

So if you’ll have me, Jenny, 

Let us appoint the day.’’ 


Poems for Children 


7« 

Jenny blushed behind her fan, 
And thus declared her mind: 
“Then let it be to-morrow, Bob, 

I take your offer kind— 

Cherry pie is very good! 

So is currant wine! 

But I will wear my brown gown, 
And never dress too fine.” 


Robin rose up early 
At the break of day; 

He flew to Jenny Wren’s house, 

To sing a roundelay. 

He met the Cock and Hen, 

And bid the Cock declare, 

This was his wedding-day 
With Jenny Wren the fair. 

The Cock then blew his horn, 

To let the neighbours know, 

This was Robin’s wedding-day, 

And they might see the show. 

And first came Parson Rook, 

With his spectacles and band, 

And one of Mother Hubbard’s books 
He held within his hand. 

Then followed him the Lark, 

For he could sweetly sing, 

And he was to be clerk 
At Cock Robin’s wedding. 

He sang of Robin’s love 
For little Jenny Wren; 

And when he came unto the end, 
Then he began again. 

Then came the bride and bridegroom; 

Quite plainly was she dressed, 
And blushed so much, her cheeks were 
As red as Robin’s breast. 

But Robin cheered her up; 

“My pretty Jen,” said he, 

“We’re going to be married 
And happy shall we be.” 


The Goldfinch came on next, 

To give away the bride; 

The Linnet, being bride’s maid, 
Walked by Jenny’s side; 

And, as she was a-walking, 

She said, “Upon my word, 

I think that your Cock Robin 
Is a very pretty bird.’ ’ 

The Bulfinch walked by Robin, 

And thus to him did say, 

“Pray, mark, friend Robin Redbreast, 
That Goldfinch dressed so gay; 

What though her gay apparel 
Becomes her very well, 

Yet Jenny’s modest dress and look 
Must bear away the bell. ’ ’ 

The Blackbird and the Thrush, 

And charming Nightingale, 

Whose sweet jug sweetly echoes 
Through every grove and dell; 

The Sparrow and Tom Tit, 

And many more, were there: 

All came to see the wedding 
Of Jenny Wren, the fair. 

“0 then,” says Parson Rook, 

‘ ‘ Who gives this maid away ? ’ ’ 

“I do,” says the Goldfinch, 

“And her fortune I will pay: 

Here’s a bag of grain of many sorts, 
And other things beside; 

Now happy be the bridegroom, 

And happy be the bride! ’ ’ 

“And will you have her, Robin, 

To be your wedded wife?” 

“Yes, I will,” says Robin, 

“And love her all my life.” 

“And will you have him, Jenny, 
Your husband now to be?” 

“Yes, I will,” says Jenny, 

“And love him heartily.” 


79 


Rhymes for 

Then on her finger fair 
Cock Robin put the ring; 

“You’re married now,” says Parson 
Rook, 

While the Lark aloud did sing: 
“Happy be the bridegroom, 

And happy be the bride! 

And may not man, nor bird, nor 
beast, 

This happy pair divide.” 


Little Ones 

His aim then he took, 

But he took it not right; 

His skill was not good, 

Or he shot in a fright; 

For the Cuckoo he missed, 

But Cock Robin killed!— 

And all the birds mourned 
That his blood was so spilled. 

Unknown. 


The birds were asked to dine; 

Not Jenny’s friends alone, 

But every pretty songster 
That had Cock Robin known. 

They had a cherry pie, 

Beside some currant wine, 

And every guest brought something, 
That sumptuous they might dine. 

Now they all sat or stood 
To eat and to drink; 

And every one said what 
He happened to think: 

They each took a bumper, 

And drank to the pair: 

Cock Robin, the bridegroom, 

. And Jenny Wren, the fair. 

The dinner-things removed, 

They all began to sing; 

And soon they made the place 
Near a mile round to ring. 

The concert it was fine; 

And every bird tried 

Who best could sing for Robin 
And Jenny Wren, the bride. 

Then in came the Cuckoo, 

And made a great rout; 

He caught hold of Jenny 
And pulled her about. 

Cock Robin was angry, 

And so was the Sparrow, 

Who fetched in a hurry 
His bow and his arrow. 


A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS. 

’Twas the night before Christmas, 
when all through the house 

Not a creature was stirring, not even 
a mouse; 

The stockings were hung by the chim¬ 
ney with care, 

In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would 
be there; 

The children were nestled all snug in 
their beds, 

While visions of sugar-plums danced 
in their heads; 

And mamma in her ’kerchief, and I 
in my cap, 

Had just settled our brains for a long 
winter’s nap, 

When out on the lawn there arose 
such a clatter, 

I sprang from the bed to see what was 
the matter. 

Away to the window I flew like a 
flash, 

Tore open the shutters and threw up 
the sash. 

The moon on the breast of the new- 
fallen snow 

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects 
below, 

When, what to my wondering eyes 
should appear, 

But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny 
reindeer, 


Poems for Children 


80 

With a little old driver, so lively and 
quick, 

I knew in a moment it must be St. 
Nick. 

More rapid than eagles his coursers 
they came, 

And he whistled, and shouted, and 
called them by name: 

“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, 
Prancer and Vixen! 

On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder 
and Blitzen! 

To the top of the porch! to the top of 
the wall! 

Now dash away! dash away! dash 
away all!” 

As dry leaves that before the wild 
hurricane fly, 

When they meet with an obstacle, 
mount to the sky, 

So up to the house-top the coursers 
they flew, 

With the sleigh full of toys, and St. 
Nicholas too. 

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on 
the roof 

The prancing and pawing of each 
little hoof. 

As I drew in my head, and was turn¬ 
ing around, 

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came 
with a bound. 

lie was dressed all in fur, from his 
head to his foot, 

And his clothes were all tarnished 
with ashes and soot; 

A bundle of toys he had flung on his 
back, 

And he looked like a peddler just 
opening his pack. 

His eyes—how they twinkled! his 
dimples how merry! 

His cheeks were like roses, his nose 
like a cherry! 

His droll little mouth was drawn up 
like a bow, 


And the beard of his chin was as 
white as the snow; 

The stump of a pipe he held tight in 
his teeth, 

And the smoke it encircled his head 
like a wreath; 

He had a broad face and a little 
round belly, 

That shook, when he laughed, like a 
bowlful of jelly. 

He was chubby and plump, a right 
jolly old elf, 

And I laughed when I saw him, in 
spite of myself; 

A wink of his eye and a twist of his 
head, 

Soon gave me to know I had nothing 
to dread; 

He spoke not a word, but went 
straight to his work, 

And filled all the stockings; then 
turned with a jerk, 

And laying his finger aside of his 
nose, 

And giving a nod, up the chimney he 
rose; 

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team 
gave a whistle, 

And away they all flew like the down 
of a thistle. 

But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove 
out of sight, 

“Happy Christmas to all , and to all a 
good-night. ’ ’ 

Clement Clarke Moore. 


THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 

Between the dark and the daylight, 
When the night is beginning to 
lower, 

Comes a pause in the day’s occupa¬ 
tions, 

That is known as the Children’s 
Hour. 


8 i 


Rhymes tor Little Ones 


I hear in the chamber above me 
The patter of little feet, 

The sound of a door that is opened, 
And voices soft and sweet. 

From my study I see in the lamplight, 
Descending the broad hall stair, 
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, 
And Edith with golden hair. 

A whisper, and then a silence: 

Yet I know by their merry eyes 
They are plotting and planning to¬ 
gether 

To take me by surprise. 

A sudden rush from the stairway, 

A sudden raid from the hall! 

By three doors left unguarded 
They enter my castle wall! 

They climb up into my turret 

O'er the arms and back of my 
chair; 

If I try to escape, they surround me; 
They seem to be everywhere. 

They almost devour me with kisses, 
Their arms about me entwine, 

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine! 

Do you think, 0 blue-eyed banditti, 
Because you have scaled the wall, 
Such an old mustache as I am 
Is not a match for you all! 

I have you fast in my fortress, 

And will not let you depart, 

But put you down into the dungeon 
In the round-tower of my heart. 

And there will I keep you forever, 
Yes, forever and a day, 

Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, 
And moulder in dust away. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 


THE BAREFOOT BOY. 

Blessings on thee, little man, 
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! 
With thy turned-up pantaloons, 

And thy merry whistled tunes; 

With thy red lip, redder still 
Kissed by strawberries on the hill; 
With the sunshine on thy face, 
Through thy torn brim’s jauntv 
grace; 

From my heart I give thee joy,— 

I was once a barefoot boy! 

Prince thou art,—the grown-up man 
Only is a republican. 

Let the million-dollared ride! 
Barefoot, trudging at his side, 

Thou hast more than he can buy 
In the reach of ear and eye,— 
Outward sunshine, inward joy: 
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy! 


Oh for boyhood’s painless play, 

Sleep that wakes in laughing day, 
Health that mocks the doctor’s rules, 
Knowledge never learned of schools, 
Of the wild bee’s morning chase, 

Of the wild flower’s time and place, 
Flight of fowl and habitude 
Of the tenants of the wood; 

How the tortoise bears his shell, 

How the woodchuck digs his cell, 
And the ground-mole sinks his well; 
How the robin feeds her young, 

How the oriole’s nest is hung; 

Where the whitest lilies blow, 

Where the freshest berries grow, 
Where the ground-nut trails its vine, 
Where the wood-grape’s clusters 
shine; 

Of the black wasp’s cunning way, 
Mason of his walls of clay, 

And the architectural plans 
Of gray hornet artisans! 

For, eschewing books and tasks, 
Nature answers all he asks; 


82 


Poems for Children 


Hand in hand with her he walks, 
Face to face with her he talks, 

Part and parcel of her joy,— 
Blessings on the barefoot boy! 

Oh for boyhood’s time of June, 
Crowding years in one brief moon, 
When all things I heard or saw, 

Me, their master, waited for. 

I was rich in flowers and trees, 
Humming-birds and honey-bees; 

For my sport the squirrel played, 
Plied the snouted mole his spade; 
For my taste the blackberry cone 
Purpled over hedge and stone; 
Laughed the brook for my delight 
Through the day and through the 
night,— 

Whispering at the garden wall, 
Talked with me from fall to fall; 
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond, 
Mine the walnut slopes beyond, 

Mine, on bending orchard trees, 
Apples of Hesperides! 

Still as my horizon grew, 

Larger grew my riches too; 

All the world I saw or knew 
Seemed a complex Chinese toy, 
Fashioned for a barefoot boy! 

Oh for festal dainties spread, 

Like my bowl of milk and bread; 
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, 

On the door-stone, gray and rude! 
O’er me, like a regal tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent, 
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, 
Looped in many a wind-swung fold; 
While for music came the play 
Of the pied frogs’ orchestra; 

And, to light the noisy choir, 

Lit the fly his lamp of fire. 

I was monarch: pomp and joy 
Waited on the barefoot boy! 

Cheerily, then, my little man, 

Live and laugh, as boyhood can! 


Though the flinty slopes be hard, 
Stubble-speared the new-mown'sward, 
Every morn shall lead thee through 
Fresh baptisms of the dew; 

Every evening from thy feet 
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat: 

All too soon these feet must hide 
In the prison cells of pride, 

Lose the freedom of the sod, 

Like a colt’s for work be shod, 

Made to tread the mills of toil, 

Up and down in ceaseless moil: 
Happy if their track be found 
Never on forbidden ground; 

Happy if they sink not in 
Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 
Ah! that thou couldst know thy joy, 
Ere it passes, barefoot boy! 

John Greenlecif Whittier. 

OUR MOTHER. 

Hundreds of stars in the pretty sky, 
Hundreds of shells on the shore to¬ 
gether, 

Hundreds of birds that go singing by, 
Hundreds of birds in the sunny 
weather, 

Hundreds of dewdrops to greet the 
dawn, 

Hundreds of bees in the purple 
clover, 

Hundreds of butterflies on the lawn, 
But only one mother the wide world 
over. 

TJnknoivn. 

A YEAR’S WINDFALLS. 

On the wind of January 
Down flits the snow, 

Travelling from the frozen North 
As cold as it can blow. 

Poor robin redbreast, 

Look where he comes; 

Let him in to feel your fire, 

And toss him of your crumbs. 



© G. W. J. & CO. 


Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan! 


THE BAREFOOT BOY 























































83 


Rhymes for Little Ones 


On the wind in February 
Snowflakes float still, 

Half inclined to turn to rain, 
Nipping, dripping, chill. 

Then the thaws swell the streams, 
And swollen rivers swell the sea:— 
If the winter ever ends 
How pleasant it will be. 

In the wind of windy March 
The catkins drop down, 

Curly, caterpillar-like, 

Curious green and brown. 

With concourse of nest-building birds 
And leaf-buds by the way, 

We begin to think of flowers 
And life and nuts some day. 

With the gusts of April 

Rich fruit-tree blossoms fall, 

On the hedged-in orchard-green, 
From the southern wall. 
Apple-trees and pear-trees 
Shed petals white or pink, 
Plum-trees and peach-trees; 

While sharp showers sink and sink. 

Little brings the May breeze 
Beside pure scent of flowers, 

While all things wax and nothing 
wanes 

In lengthening daylight hours. 
Across the hyacinth beds 

The wind lags warm and sweet, 
Across the hawthorn tops, 

Across the blades of wheat. 

In the wind of sunny June 
Thrives the red rose crop, 

Every day fresh blossoms blow 
While the first leaves drop; 

White rose and yellow rose 
And moss rose choice to find, 

And the cottage cabbage-rose 
Not one whit behind. 


On the blast of scorched July 
Drives the pelting hail, 

From thunderous lightning clouds, 
that blot 

Blue heaven grown lurid-pale, 
Weedy waves are tossed ashore, 
Sea-things strange to sight 
Gasp upon the barren shore 
And fade away in light. 

In the parching August wind 
Corn-fields bow the head, 

Sheltered in round valley depths, 

On low hills outspread. 

Early leaves drop loitering down, 
Weightless on the breeze, 

First fruits of the year’s decay 
From the withering trees. 

In brisk wind of September 
The heavy-headed fruits 
Shake upon their bending boughs 
And drop from the shoots; 

Some glow golden in the sun, 

Some show green and streaked, 
Some set forth a purple bloom, 

Some blush rosy-cheeked. 

In strong blast of October 
At the equinox, 

Stirred up in his hollow bed 
Broad ocean rocks; 

Plunge the ships on his bosom, 

Leaps and plunges the foam, 

It’s oh! for mothers’ sons at sea, 
That they were safe at home. 

In slack wind of November 
The fog forms and shifts; 

All the world comes out again 
When the fog lifts. 

Loosened from their sapless twigs 
Leaves drop with every gust; 
Drifting, rustling, out of sight 
In the damp or dust. 


Poems for Children 


84 

Last of all, December, 

The year’s sands nearly run, 
Speeds on the shortest day, 
Curtails the sun; 

With its bleak raw wind 
Lays the last leaves low, 

Brings back the nightly frosts, 
Brings back the snow. 

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 


BREAKFAST. 

A dinner party, coffee, tea, 

Sandwich, or supper—all may be 
In their way pleasant. But to me 
Not one of these deserves the praise 
That welcomer of new-born days, 

A breakfast , merits; ever giving 
Cheerful notice we are living 
Another day refreshed by sleep 
When its festival we keep. 

Now although I would not slight 
Those kindly words we use, “Good¬ 
night,” 

Yet parting words are words of sor¬ 
row, 

And may not vie with sweet “Good- 
morrow, ’ ’ 

With which again our friends we 
greet, 

When in the breakfast-room we meet, 
At the social table round, 

Listening to the lively sound 
Of those notes which never tire, 

Of urn, or kettle on the fire. 

Sleepy Robert never hears 
Of urn or kettle; he appears 
When all have finished, one by one 
Dropping off, and breakfast done. 

Yet has he, too, his own pleasure. 

His breakfast hour’s his hour of 
leisure; 

And, left alone, he reads or muses, 
Or else in idle mood he uses 


To sit and watch the venturous fly, 
Where the sugar’s piled high, 
Clambering o’er the humps so white 
Rocky cliffs of sweet delight. 

Charles and Mary Lamb. 


WHO STOLE THE BIRD’S NEST? 

“To- whit! to-whit! to-whee! 

Will you listen to me? 

Who stole four eggs I laid, 

And the nice nest I made?” 

“Not I,” said the cow, “Moo-oo! 
Such a thing I’d never do. 

I gave you a wisp of hay, 

But didn’t take your nest away. 
Not I,” said the cow, “Moo-oo! 
Such a thing I’d never do.” 

“To-whit! to-whit! to-whee! 

Will you listen to me? 

Who stole four eggs I laid, 

And the nice nest I made?” 

“Bob-o-link! Bob-o-link! 

Now what do you think? 

Who stole a nest away 
From the plum-tree, to-day?” 

“Not I,” said the dog, “Bow-wow 
I wouldn’t be so mean, anyhow! 

I gave hairs the nest to make, 

But the nest I did not take. 

Not I,” said the dog, “Bow-wow 
I’m not so mean, anyhow.” 

‘ * To-whit! to-whit! to-whee! 

Will you listen to me? 

Who stole four eggs I laid, 

And the nice nest I made?” 

* ‘ Bob-o-link! Bob-o-link! 

Now what do you think? 

Who stole a nest away 
From the plum-tree, to-day?” 


85 


Rhymes for Little Ones 


* ‘ Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Coo-coo! 

Let me speak a word, too! 

Who stole that pretty nest 
From little yellow-breast?” 

“Not I,” said the sheep; “Oh, no! 

I wouldn’t treat a poor bird so. 

I gave wool the nest to line, 

But the nest was none of mine. 
Baa! Baa!” said the sheep, “Oh, 
no, 

I wouldn’t treat a poor bird so.” 

‘ * To-whit! to-whit! to-whce! 

"Will you listen to me? 

Who stole four eggs I laid, 

And the nice nest I made?” 

‘ 1 Bob-o-link! Bob-o-link! 

Now what do you think? 

t/ 

Who stole a nest away 
From the plum-tree, to-day?” 

11 Coo-coo! Coo-coo! Coo-coo! 

Let me speak a word, too! 

Who stole that pretty nest 
From little yellow-breast?” 

“Caw! Caw!” cried the crow; 

“I should like to know 
What thief took away 
A bird’s nest, to-day?” 

“Cluck! Cluck!” said the hen; 
“Don’t ask me again, 

Why I haven’t a chick 
Would do such a trick. 

We all gave her a feather, 

And she wove them together. 

I’d scorn to intrude 
On her and her brood. 

Cluck! Cluck!” said the hen, 
“Don’t ask me again.” 

'‘ Chirr-a-whirr! Chirr-a-whirr! 

All the birds make a stir! 

Let us find out his name, 

And all cry 'For shame!’ ” 


‘ ‘ I would not rob a bird, ’ ’ 

Said little Mary Green; 

“I think I never heard 
Of anything so mean.” 

“It is very cruel, too,” 

Said little Alice Neal; 

* ‘ I wonder if he knew 

How sad the bird would feel?” 

A little boy hung down his head, 
And went and hid behind the bed, 
For he stole that pretty nest 
From poor little yellow-breast; 
And he felt so full of shame, 

He didn’t like to tell his name. 

Lydia Maria Child. 


THE DESSERT. 

With the apples and the plums, 
Little Carolina comes; 

At the time of the dessert she 
Comes and drops her last new curt¬ 
sey; 

Graceful curtsey, practised o’er 
In the nursery before. 

What shall we compare her to? 

The dessert itself will do. 

Like preserves, she’s kept with care, 
Like blanched almonds, she is fair, 
Soft as down on peach her hair, 
And so soft, so smooth is each 
Pretty cheek as that same peach, 
Yet more like in hue to cherries; 
Then her lips, the sweet straw¬ 
berries, 

Caroline herself shall try them 
If they are not like when nigh 
them; 

Her bright eyes are black as sloes, 
But I think we’ve none of those 
Common fruit here; and her chin 
From a round point does begin, 
Like the small end of a pear; 
Whiter drapery she does wear 


86 


Poems for Children 


Than the frost on cake; and'sweeter 
Than the cake itself, and neater, 
Though bedecked with emblems 
fine, 

Is our little Caroline. 

Charles and Mary Lamb. 


BIRDS IN SUMMER. 

How pleasant the life of a bird 
must be, 

Flitting about in each leafy tree; 

In the leafy trees so broad and tall, 

Like a green and beautiful palace 
hall, 

With its airy chambers, light and 
boon, 

That open to sun, and stars, and 
moon; 

That open unto the bright blue sky, 

And the frolicsome winds as they 
wander by! 

They have left their nests in the 
forest bough; 

Those homes of delight they need 
not now; 

And the young and the old they 
wander out, 

And traverse the green world round 
about; 

And hark at the top of this leafy 
hall, 

How, one to another they lovingly 
call! 

“Come up, come up!” they seem to 
say, 

“AVhere the topmost twigs in the 
breezes play! ’ * 

‘ * Come up, come up, for the world is 
fair, 

AVhere the merry leaves dance in 
the summer air!” 


And the birds below give back the 
cry, 

“We come, we come to the branches 
high!” 

How pleasant the life of the birds 
must be, 

Living above in a leafy tree! 

And away through the air what joy 
to go, 

And to look on the green, bright 
earth below! 

How pleasant the life of a bird 
must be, 

Skimming about on the breezy sea, 

Cresting the billows like silvery 
foam, 

Then wheeling away to its cliff- 
built home! 

AVliat joy it must be to sail, up¬ 
borne, 

By a strong free wing, through the 
rosy morn, 

To meet the young sun, face to face, 

And pierce, like a shaft, the bound¬ 
less space! 

To pass through the bowers of the 
silver cloud; 

To sing in the thunder halls aloud; 

To spread out the wings for a wild, 
free flight 

AVith the upper cloud-winds,—oh, 
what delight! 

Oh, what would I give, like a bird, 
to go, 

Right on through the arch of the 
sun-lit bow, 

And see how the water-drops arc 
kissed 

Into green and yellow and ame¬ 
thyst. 

How pleasant the life of a bird 
must be, 

AVherever it listeth, there to flee; 


Rhymes tor 

To go, when a joyful fancy calls, 

Dashing down ’mong the water¬ 
falls ; 

Then wheeling about, with its mate 
at play, 

Above and below, and among the 
spray, 

Hither and thither, with screams as 
wild 

As the laughing mirth of a rosy 
child! 

What joy it must be, like a living 
breeze, 

To flutter about ’mid the flowering 
trees; 

Lightly to soar and to see beneath, 

The wastes of the blossoming pur¬ 
ple heath, 

And the yellow furze, like fields of 
gold, 

That gladden some fairy region 
old! 

On mountain-tops, on the billowy 
sea, 

On the leafy stems of the forest- 
tree, 

How pleasant the life of a bird 
must be! 

Mary Ilowitt. 


SEVEN TIMES ONE. 

There’s no dew left on the daisies 
and clover, 

There’s no rain left in heaven; 

I’ve said my “seven times” over and 
over— 

Seven times one are seven. 

I am old! so old I can write a letter; 

My birthday lessons are done: 

The lambs play always, they know no 
better; 

They are only one times one. 


Little Ones 87 

0 Moon! in the night I have seen you 
sailing, 

And shining so round and low; 

You were bright! ah, bright! but your 
light is failing; 

You are nothing now but a bow. 

You Moon! have you done something 
wrong in heaven, 

That God has hidden your face ? 

I hope, if you have, you will soon be 
forgiven, 

And shine again in your place. 

O velvet Bee! you ’re a dusty fellow, 

You’ve powdered your legs with 
gold; 

0 brave marsh Mary-buds, rich and 
yellow! 

Give me your money to hold. 

0 Columbine! open your folded 
wrapper 

Where two twin turtle-doves dwell; 

0 Cuckoo-pint! toll me the purple 
clapper, 

That hangs in your clear, green 
bell. 

And show me your nest with the 
young ones in it— 

I will not steal them away, 

I am old! you may trust me, Linnet, 
Linnet,— 

I am seven times one to-day. 

Jean Ingeloiv. 

POLLY. 

Brown eyes, straight nose; 

Dirt pies, rumpled clothes. 

Torn books, spoilt toys; 

Arch looks, unlike a boy’s; 

Little rages, obvious arts; 

(Three her age is), cakes, tarts; 


88 


Poems for Children 


Falling down off chairs; 

Breaking crown down stairs; 

Catching flies on the pane; 

Deep sighs—cause not plain; 

Bribing you with kisses 
For a few farthing blisses. 

Wide-a-wake; as you hear, 
“Mercy’s sake, quiet, dear!” 

New shoes, new frock; 

Vague views of what’s o’clock 

When it’s time to go to bed, 

And scorn sublime for what is said. 

Folded hands, saying prayers, 
Understands not nor cares— 

Thinks it odd, smiles away; 

Yet may God hear her pray! 

Bed gown white, kiss Dolly; 
Good-night!—that’s Polly. 

Fast asleep, as you see, 

Heaven keep my girl for me! 

William Brighty Bands. 


THE LOST DOLL. 

T once had a sweet little doll, dears, 
The prettiest doll in the world; 

Her cheeks were so red and white, 
dears, 

And her hair was so charmingly 
curled. 

But I lost my poor little doll, dears, 
As I played on the heath one day; 

And I cried for her more than a week, 
dears, 

But I never could find where she 
lay. 


I found my poor little doll, dears, 

As I played on the heath one day; 

Folks say she is terribly changed, 
dears, 

For her paint is all washed away, 

And her arms trodden off by the cows, 
dears, 

And her hair not the least bit 
curled; 

Yet for old sake’s sake, she is still, 
dears, 

The prettiest doll in the world. 

Charles Kingsley. 


COME, LITTLE LEAVES. 

“Come, little leaves,” said the wind 
one day. 

“Come over the meadows with me 
and play; 

Put on your dresses of red and gold, 

For summer is gone and the days 
grow cold. ’ ’ 

Soon as the leaves heard the wind’s 
loud call, 

Down they came fluttering, one and 
all; 

Over the brown fields thev danced 
and flew, 

Singing the sweet little song they 
knew. 

“Cricket, good-by, we’ve been friends 
so long, 

Little brook, sing us your farewell 
song; 

Say you are sorry to see us go; 

Ah, you will miss us, right well we 
know. 

“Dear little lambs in vour fleecv 
fold, 

Mother will keep you from harm 
and cold; 


Rhymes for Little Ones 


Fondly we watched you in vale and 
glade, 

Say, will you dream of our loving 
shade ?’’ 

Dancing and whirling, the little 
leaves went,' 

Winter had called them, and they 
were content; 

Soon, fast asleep in their earthy 
beds, 

The snow laid a coverlid over their 
heads. 

George Cooper. 


FREDDIE AND THE CHERRY 
TREE. 

Freddie saw some fine ripe cherries 
Hanging on a cherry tree. 

And he said, “You pretty cherries, 
Will you not come down to me?” 

‘Thank you kindly,” said a cherry, 
“We would rather stay up here; 
If we ventured down this morning, 
You would eat us up, I fear.” 

One, the finest of the cherries, 
Dangled from a slender twig. 
‘You are beautiful,” said Freddie, 

‘ ‘ Red and ripe, and oh, how big!’ ’ 

‘Catch me,” said the cherry, “catch 
me. 

Little master, if you can.” 

‘ I would catch you soon, ’ ’ said 
Freddie, 

“If I were a grown-up man.” 

Freddie jumped, and tried to reach 
it, 

Standing high upon his toes; 

But the cherry bobbed about. 

And laughed, and tickled Fred¬ 
die’s nose. 


89 

“Never mind,” said little Freddie, 
“I shall have them when it's 
right.” 

But a blackbird whistled boldly, 

“I shall eat them all to-night.” 

Ann Hawkshawe. 

THE DREAM OF A GIRL WHO 
LIVED AT SEVEN-OAKS. 

Seven sweet singing birds up in a 
tree; 

Seven swift sailing-ships white upon 
the sea; 

Seven bright weather-cocks shining in 
the sun; 

Seven slim race-horses ready for a 
run; 

Seven gold butterflies, flitting over¬ 
head ; 

Seven red roses blowing in a garden 
bed; 

Seven white lilies, with honey bees in¬ 
side them; 

Seven round rainbows with clouds to 
divide them; 

Seven pretty little girls with sugar 011 
their lips; 

Seven witty little boys, whom every¬ 
body tips; 

Seven nice fathers, to call little maids 
joys; 

Seven nice mothers, to kiss the little 
boys; 

Seven nights running I dreamt it all 
plain; 

With bread and jam for supper I 
could dream it all again! 

William Brighty Bands. 

WHICH IS THE FAVOURITE? 

Brothers and sisters I have many; 

Though I know there is not any 

Of them but I love, yet I 

Will just name them all; and try 

If there be one a little more 


90 


Poems for Children 


Loved by me than all the rest. 

Yes; I do think, that I love best 
My brother Henry, because he 
Has always been most fond of me. 
Yet, to be sure, there’s Isabel; 

I think I love her quite as well. 

And, I assure you, little Ann, 

No brother nor no sister can 
Be more dear to me than she. 

Only I must say, Emily, 

Being the eldest, it’s right her 
To all the rest I should prefer. 

Yet after all I’ve said, suppose 
My greatest favourite should be Rose ? 
No; John and Paul are both more dear 
To me than Rose, that’s always here, 
While they are half the year at school; 
And yet that neither is no rule. 

I see them all—there’s only seven; 

I find my love to all so even, 

To every sister, every brother, 

I love not one more than another. 

Charles and Mary Lamb. 

ROMANCE. 

I saw a ship a-sailing, 

A-sailing on the sea; 

Her masts were of the shining gold, 
Her deck of ivory; 

And sails of silk, as soft as milk, 

And silvern shrouds had she. 

And round about her sailing, 

The sea was sparkling white, 

The waves all clapped their hands and 
sang 

To see so fair a sight. 

They kissed her twice, they kissed her 
thrice, 

And murmured with delight. 

Then came the gallant captain, 

And stood upon the deck; 

In velvet coat, and ruffles white, 
Without a spot or speck; 

And diamond rings, and triple strings 
Of pearls around his neck. 


And four-and-twenty sailors 

Were round him bowing low; 

On every jacket three times three 

Gold buttons in a row; 

And cutlasses down to their knees; 

They made a goodly show. 

And then the ship went sailing, 

A-sailing o ’er the sea; 

She dived beyond the setting sun, 

But never back came she, 

For she found the lands of the golden 
sands, 

Where the pearls and diamonds be. 

Gabriel Setoun. 

EMPLOYMENT. 

Who’ll come and play with me here 
under the tree, 

My sisters have left me alone; 

My sweet little Sparrow, come hither 
to me, 

And play with me while they are 
gone. 

O no, little lady, I can’t come, indeed, 

I’ve no time to idle away, 

I’ve got all my dear little children to 
feed, 

And my nest to new cover with hay. 

Pretty Bee, do not buzz about over 
the flower, 

But come here and play with me, 
do: 

The Sparrow won’t come and stay 
with me an hour, 

But stay, pretty Bee—will not you 4 / 

O no, little lady, for do not you see, 

Those must work who would pros¬ 
per and thrive, 

If I play, they would call me a sad 
idle bee, 

And perhaps turn me out of the 
hive. 


Rhymes for Little Ones 


Stop! stop! little Ant—do not run off 
so fast, 

Wait with me a little and play: 

I hope I shall find a companion at last, 
You are not so busy as they. 

0 no, little lady, I can’t stay with you, 
We’re not made to play, but to 
labour: 

I always have something or other to 
do, 

If not for myself, for a neighbour. 

What then, have they all some em¬ 
ployment but me, 

Who lie lounging here like a dunce? 
0 then, like the Ant, and the Sparrow, 
and Bee, 

I ’ll go to my lesson at once. 

Jane Taylor. 

THE PEACH. 

Mamma gave us a single peach, 

She shared it among seven; 

Now you may think that unto each 
But a small piece was given. 

Yet though each share was very small, 
We owned when it was eaten, 
Being so little for us all 

Did its fine flavour heighten. 

The tear was in our parent’s eye, 

It seemed quite out of season; 
When we asked wherefore did she cry, 
She thus explained the reason: 

“The cause, my children, I may say, 
Was joy and not dejection; 

The peach which made you all so gay, 
Gave rise to this reflection: 

“It’s many a mother’s lot to share, 
Seven hungry children viewing, 

A morsel of the coarsest fare, 

As I this peach was doing. ’’ 

Charles and Mary Lamb. 


9 1 

THE ORANGE. 

The month was June, the day was hot, 
And Philip had an orange got;* 

The fruit was fragrant, tempting, 
bright, 

Refreshing to the smell and sight; 
Not of that puny size which calls 
Poor customers to common stalls, 

But large and massy, full of juice, 

As any Lima can produce. 

The liquor would, if squeezed out, 
Have filled a tumbler—thereabout. 

The happy boy with greedy eyes, 
Surveys and re-surveys his prize. 

He turns it round, and longs to drain, 
And with the juice his lips to stain, 
His throat ancl lips were parched with 
heat; 

The orange seemed to crv, “Come, 
eat.” 

He from his pocket draws a knife, 
When in his thoughts there rose a 
strife, 

Which folks experience when they 
wish, 

Yet scruple, to begin a dish, 

And by their hesitation own 
It is too good to eat alone. 

But appetite o’er indecision 
Prevails, and Philip makes incision. 

The melting fruit in quarters came,— 
Just then there passed by a dame, 
One of the poorer sort she seemed, 

As by her garb you would have 
deemed, 

Who in her toil-worn arms did hold 
A sickly infant ten months old; 

That from a fever caught in spring, 
Was slowly then recovering. 

The child, attracted by the view 
Of that fair orange, feebly threw 
A languid look—perhaps the smell 
Convinced it that there sure must 
dwell 


Poems for Children 


92 

A corresponding sweetness there, 
Where lodged a scent so good and 
rare— 

Perhaps the smell the fruit did give 
Felt healing and restorative— 

For never had the child been graced 
To know such dainties by their taste. 

When Philip saw the infant crave, 
He straightway to the mother gave 
His quartered orange; nor would stay 
To hear her thanks, but tripped away. 
Then to the next clear spring he ran 
To quench his drought, a happy man. 

Charles and Mary Lamb. 

OXFORDSHIRE CHILDREN’S MAY 

SONG. 

Spring is coming, spring is coming, 
Birdies, build your nest; 

Weave together straw and feather, 
Doing each your best. 

Spring is coming, spring is coming, 
Flowers are coming too: 

Pansies, lilies, daffodillies, 

Now are coming through. 

Spring is coming, spring is coming, 
All around is fair; 

Shimmer and quiver on the river, 

Joy is everywhere. 

We wish you a happy May. 

Country Rhyme. 

TWO APPLE-HOWLING SONGS. 

Sung in Orchards by the Apple-Howlers on 
Twelfth Day. 

/. Surrey. 

Here stands a good apple tree, 

Stand fast at root, 

Bear well at top; 

Every little twig 
Bear an apple big; 


Every little bough 
Bear an apple now; 

Hats full! caps full! 

Threescore sacks full! 

Hullo, boys! hullo! 

II. Devonshire. 

Here’s to thee, old apple tree, 

Whence thou may’st bud, and whence 
thou may’st blow, 

And whence thou may’st bear apples 
enow! 

Hats full! Caps full! 

Bushel—'bushel—sacks full, 

Old parson’s breeches full, 

And my pockets full, too! 

Huzza! 

Old Rhymes. 


THE BROWN THRUSH. 

There’s a merry brown thrush sitting 
up in the tree. 

He’s singing to me! He’s singing to 
me! 

And what does he say, little girl, 
little boy? 

“Oh, the world’s running over with 
joy! 

Don’t you hear? Don’t you 
see? 

Hush! Look! In my tree, 

I’m as happy as happy can 
be!” 

And the brown thrush keeps singing, 
“A nest do you see 

And five eggs, hid by me in the juni¬ 
per tree? 

Don’t meddle! Don’t touch! little 
girl, little boy, 

Or the world will lose some of its 
joy! 

Now I’m glad! now I’m free! 

And always shall be, 

If you never bring sorrow to 


93 


Rhymes for Little Ones 

The bird on the tree, 


So the merry brown thrush sings away 
in the tree, 

To you and to me, to you and to me; 

And he sings all the day, little girl, 
little boy, 

“Oh, the world’s running over with 
joy! 

But long it won’t be, 

Don’t you know? Don’t you 
see? 

Unless we’re as good as can 
be.” 

Lucy Larcom. 


NURSERY SONG. 

As I walked over the hill one day, 

I listened, and heard a mother-sheep 
say, 

‘ ‘ In all the green world there is noth¬ 
ing so sweet 

As my little lamb, with his nimble 
feet; 

With his eye so bright, 

And his wool so white, 

Oh, he is my darling, my heart’s de¬ 
light!”' 

And the mother-sheep and her little 
one 

Side by side lay down in the sun; 

And they went to sleep on the hill¬ 
side warm, 

While my little lammie lies here on 
my arm. 

I went to the kitchen, and what did I 
see 

But the old gray cat with her kittens 
three! 

I heard her whispering soft: said she, 

“My kittens, with tails so cunningly 
curled, 

Are the prettiest things that can be in 
the world. 


And the old ewe she, 

May love their babies exceedingly; 

But I love my kittens there, 

Under the rocking-chair. 

I love my kittens with all my might, 

I love them at morning, noon, and 
night. 

Now I’ll take up my kitties, the kitties 
I love, 

And we ’ll lie down together beneath 
the warm stove.” 

Let the kittens sleep under the stove 
so warm, 

While my little darling lies here on 
my arm. 


I went to the yard, and I saw the old 
hen 

Go clucking about with her chickens 
ten; 

She clucked and she scratched and she 
bustled away, 

And what do you think I heard the 
hen say? 

I heard her say, “The sun never did 
shine 

On anything like to these chickens of 
mine. 

You mav hunt the full moon and the 
stars, if you please, 

But you never will find ten such 
chickens as these. 

My dear, downy darlings, my sweet 
little things, 

Come, nestle now cozily under my 
wings. ’ ’ 

So 1 lie hen said, 

And the chickens all sped 

As fast as they could to their nice 
feather bed. 

And there let them sleep, in their 
feathers so warm, 

While my little chick lies here on my 
arm. 


Mrs. Carter. 


94 


Poems for Children 


THE ROBIN TO HIS MATE. 

Said Kobin to his pretty mate, 
‘‘Bring here a little hay; 

Lay here a stick and there a straw, 
And bring a little clay. 

“And we will build a little nest, 
Wherein you soon shall lay 
Your little eggs, so smooth, so blue; 
Come, let us work away. 

“And you shall keep them very 
warm; 

And only think, my dear, 

’Twill not be long before we see 
Four little robins here. 

“They’ll open wide their yellow 
mouths, 

And we will feed them well, 

For we shall love the little dears, 
Oh, more than I can tell! 

“And while the sun is shining warm 
Up in the summer sky, 

I ’ll sit and sing to them and you, 
Up in the branches high. 

“And all night long, my love, you’ll 
sit 

Upon the pretty nest, 

And keep the little robins warm 
Beneath your downy breast.” 

Mrs. Carter. 


TWENTY FROGGIES. 

Twenty froggies went to school 
Down beside a rushy pool. 
Twenty little coats of green, 
Twenty vests all white and clean. 

“We must be in time,” said they, 
“First we study, then we play”; 
That is how we keep the rule, 
When we froggies go to school.” 


Master Bull-frog, brave and stern, 
Called his classes in their turn, 
Taught them how to nobly strive, 
Also how to leap and dive; 

Taught them how to dodge a blow, 
From the sticks that bad boys throw. 
Twenty froggies grew up fast, 
Bull-frogs they became at last; 

Polished in a high degree, 

As each froggie ought to be, 

Now they sit on other logs, 
Teaching other little frogs. 

George Cooper. 

THE DOLL’S HOUSE. 

Dear Agatha, I give you joy, 

And much admire your pretty toy; 

A mansion in itself complete, 

And fitted to give guests a treat; 
With couch and table, chest and chair, 
The bed or supper to prepare; 

We almost wish to change ourselves 
To fairy forms of tripping elves, 

To press the velvet couch and eat 
From tiny cups the sugared meat. 

I much suspect that many a sprite 
Inhabits it at dead of night; 

That, as they dance, the listening ear 
The pat of fairy feet might hear; 
That just as you have said your 
prayers, 

They hurry-scurry down the stairs: 
And you’ll do well to try to find 
Some little thing they’ve left behind. 

Anna Letitia Barbaald. 

THE GOOD GIRL. 

Miss Lydia Banks, though very 
young, 

Will never do what’s rude or wrong; 
When spoken to, she always tries 
To give the most polite replies. 


Rhymes for Little Ones 


Observing what at school she’s taught, 

She turns her toes as children ought; 

And when return’d at night from 
school 

She never lolls on chair or stool. 

Some children, when they write, we 
know, 

Their ink about them heedless throw; 

But she, though young, has learn’d to 
think, 

That clothes look spoil’d with spots of 
ink. 

Perhaps some little girl may ask, 

If Lydia always learns her task; 

With pleasure I can answer this, 

Because with truth I answer, “Yes.” 

Elizabeth Turner. 

A STORY FOR A CHILD. 

Little one, come to my knee! 

Hark, how the rain is pouring 

Over the roof, in the pitch-black night, 
And the wind in the woods a-roar- 
ing! 

Hush, my darling, and listen, 

Then pay for the story with kisses; 

Father was lost in the pitch-black 
night 

In just such a storm as this is! 

High up on the lonely mountains, 
Where the wild men watched and 
waited; 

Wolves in the forest, and bears in the 
bush, 

And I on my path belated. 

The rain and the night together 
Came down, and the wind came 
after, 

Bending the props of the pine-tree 
roof, 

And snapping many a rafter. 


95 

I crept along in the darkness, 
Stunned, and bruised, and blinded,— 
Crept to a fir with thick-set boughs, 
And a sheltering rock behind it. 

There, from the blowing and raining, 
Crouching, I sought to hide me: 
Something rustled, two green e} T es 
shone, 

And a wolf lay down beside me. 

Little one, be not frightened; 

I and the wolf together, 

Side by side, through the long, long 
night 

Hid from the awful weather. 

His wet fur pressed against me; 

Each of us warmed the other; 
Each of us felt, in the stormy dark, 
That beast and man was brother. 

And when the falling forest 
No longer crashed in warning, 
Each of us went from our hiding- 
place 

Forth in the wild, wet morning. 

Darling, kiss me in payment! 

Hark, how the wind is roaring; 
Father’s house is a better place 
When the stormy rain is pouring! 

Bayard Taylor . 

LUCY’S CANARY. 

BEFORE AND AFTER BREAKFAST. 

‘ ‘ Sing sweet, my bird; oh! sing, I pray. 
My pretty yellow bird! 

This is the lovely month of May, 
When songs of birds are heard. 

“You droop your head—you fold 
your wing, 

Tho’ surely you are well; 

Then, dear Canary, why not sing? 
Your sorrow to me tell.” 


Poems for Children 


96 

Miss Lucy question'd still her pet; 

Her elder sister came, 

And said, “Dear Lucy, do not fret, 
If ill, you're not to blame; 

‘ ‘ For constantly I’ve seen you give 
Your bird his drink and food 
After your breakfast, I believe;— 
My Lucy’s kind and good. ’ ’ 

Then Lucy gave a bitter cry, 

And quick the cage took down, 
No seed! no water!—all was dry; 
His life had nearly flown! 

Her sister took the drooping bird, 
And gently water gave him, 

And long she watch’d—and greatly 
fear’d 

That she could never save him! 

Poor Lucy wept with grief and 
shame,— 

But, oh! what joy to see 
The bird revive—and look the same, 
And perch most merrily! 

“Thanks, dearest sister; from this 
day, 

Before my breakfast, I’ll attend 
My precious bird! and you will say, 
No longer I Tn his careless friend. ’ 1 

Adelaide O'Keeffe. 


TO A LITTLE GIRL GATHERING 
FLOWERS. 

Sweetest ! if thy fairy hand 
Culls for me the latest flow ’rs, 
Smiling, hear me thus demand 
Blessings for thy early hours. 

Be thy promis’d spring as bright 
As its opening charms foretell; 
Graced with Beauty’s lovely light, 
Modest Virtue’s dearer spell. 


Be thy Summer’s matron bloom 
Bless’d with blossoms sweet like 
thee; 

May no tempest’s sudden doom 
Blast thy hope’s fair nursery! 

May thine Autumn, calm, serene, 
Never want some ling’ring flow’r, 

Which affection’s hand may glean, 
Though the darkling mists may 
low ’r! 

Sunshine cheer thy wintry day, 
Tranquil conscience, peace, and 
love; 

And thy wintry nights display 
Streams of glorious light above. 

Mary Tighe. 


SNOW. 

0 come to the garden, dear brother, 
and see, 

What mischief was done in the 
night; 

The snow has quite covered the nice 
apple-tree, 

And the bushes are sprinkled with 
white. 

The spring in the grove is beginning 
to freeze, 

The pond is hard frozen all o’er; 

Long icicles hang in bright rows from 
the trees, 

And drop in odd shapes from the 
door. 

The old mossy thatch, and the 
meadows so green, 

Are covered all over with white; 

The snowdrop and crocus no more 
can be seen, 

The thick snow has covered them 
quite. 


Rhymes for 

And see the poor birds how they fly 
to and fro, 

They’re come for their breakfast 
again; 

But the little worms all are hid under 
the snow, 

They hop about chirping in vain. 

Then open the window, I 'll throw 
them some bread, 

I’ve some of my breakfast to spare: 

I wish they would come to my hand to 
be fed, 

But they’re all flown away, I de¬ 
clare. 

Nay, now, pretty birds, don’t be 
frightened, I pray, 

You shall not be hurt, I’ll engage; 

I’m not come to catch you and force 
you away, 

And fasten you up in a cage. 

I wish you could know you’ve no 
cause for alarm, 

From me you have nothing to fear; 

Why, my little fingers could do you no 
harm, 

Although you came ever so near. 

Jane Taylor. 

HOW TO WRITE A LETTER. 

Maria intended a letter to write, 

But could not begin (as she thought ) 
to indite; 

So went to her mother with pencil and 
slate, 

Containing “Dear Sister,” and also a 
date. 

“With nothing to say, my dear girl, 
do not think 

Of wasting your time over paper and 
ink; 

But certainly this is an excellent way, 

To try with your slate to find some¬ 
thing to say. 


Little Ones 97 

“I will give you a rule,” said her 
Mother; “my dear, 

Just think for a moment your sister 
is here, 

And what would you tell her? con¬ 
sider, and then, 

Though silent your tongue, you can 
speak with your Pen.” 

Elizabeth Turner. 


PIPPA’S SONG. 

The year’s at the spring 
And day’s at the morn; 
Morning’s at seven; 

The hillside’s dew-pearled; 
The lark’s on the wing; 

The snail’s on the thorn; 
God’s in his heaven— 

All’s right with the world. 

Robert Browning. 


THE NEW BOOK. 

A neat little book, full of pictures, 
was bought 

For a good little girl that was glad to 
be taught. 

She read all the tales, and then said to 
her mother, 

I’ll lend this new book to my dear 
little brother. 

He shall look at the pictures and find 
O and I, 

I’m sure he won’t tear it, he’s such a 
good boy! 

Oh, no! brother Henry knows better 
indeed, 

Although he’s too young, yet, to spell 
or to read. 


Elizabeth Turner. 


9 8 


Poems for Children 


QUEEN MAB. 

A little fairy comes at night; 

Her eyes are blue, her hair is brown, 
With silver spots upon her wings, 
And from the moon she flutters 
down. 

She has a little silver wand, 

And when a good child goes to bed, 
She waves her wand from right to left, 
And makes a circle round its head. 

And then it dreams of pleasant 
things— 

Of fountains filled with fairy fish, 
And trees that bear delicious fruit, 
And bow their branches at a wish; 

Of arbors filled with dainty scents 
From lovely flowers that never fade, 
Bright flies that glitter in the sun, 
And glow-worms shining in the 
shade; 

And talking birds with gifted tongues 
For singing songs and telling tales, 
And pretty dwarfs to show the way 
Through fairy hills and fairy dales. 

• • • • • • 

Thomas Hood . 


THE TEAPOT DRAGON. 

There's a dragon on our teapot, 
With a long and crinkly tail, 
His claws are like a pincer-bug, 
His wings are like a sail; 

His tongue is always sticking out, 
And so I used to think 
He must be very hungry, or 
He wanted tea to drink. 


But once when Mother wasn’t round 
I dipped my fingers in, 

And when I pulled them out I found 
I’d blistered all the skin. 

Now when I see the dragon crawl 
Around our china pot, 

I know he’s burned his tongue because 
The water is so hot. 

Rupert Sargent Holland. 

P’S AND Q’S. 

It takes a lot of letters to make up the 
alphabet, 

And two or three of them are very 
easj^ to forget; 

There’s K—a funny letter—and X 
and Y and Z— 

There’s hardly any use at all for any 
of those three! 

The vowels are the busy ones, A, E, 
I, O, U- 

They’ve twice the work that all the 
other letters have to do; 

I don’t know why it is that grown-up 
people always choose 

To tell us children to be sure and mind 
our P’s and Q’s. 

They’re funny-looking letters, partic¬ 
ularly Q, 

It never goes around except in com¬ 
pany with U; 

P is much more important, it starts 
off pie and play, 

It’s not hard to remember if you 
think of it that way; 

But lots of words begin with F and H 
and S and T, 

They’re just as worth remembering 
as any, seems to me; 

Yet when we’ve strangers in the 
house, my parents always say, 

“Be sure you don’t forget to mind 
your P’s and Q’s to-day!” 

Rupert Sargent Holland. 



A little green pulpit stuck in the ground 

JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT 












































Rhymes for Little Ones 


JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT. 

Four of us went to the woods one day, 
Keeping the trail in the Indian way, 
Creeping, crawling, 
Sometimes sprawling, 
Pushing through bushes; and there we 
found 

A little green pulpit stuck in the 
ground 

And in the pulpit a brown man stood, 
Preaching to all the folk in the wood. 

We lay as quiet as Indians do, 

Because each one of the four of us 
knew, 

At any sound, 

The creatures ’round, 

The squirrels and chipmunks, birds 
and bees, 

Would fly away through the ring of 
trees, 

And Jack-in-the-Pulpit would stop 
his speech 

If he knew we four were in easy 
reach. 

We listened as hard as ever we could, 
But not a one of us understood, 

Or even heard, 

A single word, 

Though I saw a chipmunk nod his 
head 

As if he knew what the preacher said, 
And a big gray squirrel clapped his 
paws 

When he thought it was time for some 
applause. 

Many and many a Jack we’ve found, 
But none of us ever heard a sound; 

So I suppose 
That Jackie knows 
When children try to hear him preach, 
And talks in some peculiar speech; 

I wonder if we could find a way 
To hear what Jacks-in-the-Pulpit say? 

Rupert Sargerit Holland. 


99 

THE SECRETS OF OUR GARDEN. 

You think it’s only a garden, 

With roses along the wall; 

I’ll tell you the truth about it— 

It isn’t a garden at all! 

It’s really Robin Hood’s forest, 

And over by that big tree 
Is the very place where fat Friar 
Tuck 

Fought with the Miller of Dee. 

And back of the barn is the cavern 
Where Rob Roy really hid; 

On the other side is a treasure chest 
That belonged to Captain Kidd. 

That isn’t the pond you see there, 

It’s an ocean deep and wide, 

Where six-masted ships are waiting 
To sail on the rising tide. 

Of course it looks like a garden, 

It’s all so sunny and clear— 

You’d be surprised if you really knew 
The things that have happened 
here! 

Rupert Sargent Holland. 

FOOLISH FLOWERS. 

We’ve Foxgloves in our garden; 

How careless they must be 
To leave their gloves out hanging 
Where every one can see! 

And Bachelors leave their Buttons 
In the same careless way, 

If I should do the same with mine, 
What would my Mother say ? 

We’ve lots of Larkspurs in the yard— 
Larks only fly and sing— 

Birds surely don’t need spurs because 
They don’t ride anything! 


100 


Poems for Children 


And as for Johnny-Jump-Ups— 

I saw a hornet light 
On one of them the other day, 

He didn’t jump a mite! 

Rupert Sargent Holland. 


WHEN I GROW UP. 

When I grow up I mean to go 
Where all the biggest rivers flow, 

And take a ship and sail around 
The Seven Seas until I’ve found 
Robinson Crusoe’s famous isle, 

And there I’ll land and stay a while, 
And see how it would feel to be 
Lord of an island in the sea. 

When I grow up I mean to rove 
Through orange and palmetto grove, 
To drive a sledge across the snow 
Where great explorers like to go, 

To hunt for treasures hid of old 
By buccaneers and pirates bold, 

And see if somewhere there may be 
A mountain no one’s climbed but me. 

When I grow up I mean to do 
The things I’ve always wanted to; 

I don’t see why grown people stay 
At home, when they could be away. 

Rupert Sargent Holland. 


THE LITTLE BOY’S GOOD¬ 
NIGHT. 

The sun is hidden from our sight, 
The birds are sleeping sound; 

’Tis time to say to all, “Good-night!” 
And give a kiss all round. 

Good-night! my father, mother dear, 
Now kiss your little son; 

Good-night! my friends, both far and 
near, 

Good-night to every one. 


Good-night! ye merry, merry birds, 
Sleep well till morning light; 
Perhaps if you could sing in words, 
You would have said “Good-night! ; ’ 

To all my pretty flowers, good-night! 

You blossom while I sleep; 

And all the stars that shine so bright, 
With you their watches keep. 

The moon is lighting up the skies, 
The stars are sparkling there; 

’Tis time to shut our weary eyes, 

And say our evening prayer. 

Eliza Lee Follcn. 


GOING TO BED AT NIGHT. 

Receive my body, pretty bed; 

Soft pillow, 0 receive my head, 

And thanks, my parents kind, 
These comforts who for me provide; 
Your precepts still shall be my guide, 
Your love I’ll keep in mind. 

My hours misspent this day I rue, 
My good things done, how very few! 

Forgive my faults, 0 Lord; 

This night, if in Thy grace I rest, 
To-morrow I may rise refresh’d, 

To keep Thy hoty Word. 

Adelaide O'Keeffe. 


IF NO ONE EVER MARRIES ME. 

If no one ever marries me 
I shan’t mind very much; 

I shall buy a squirrel in a cage 
And a little rabbit-hutch: 

I shall have a cottage near a wood, 
And a pony all my own, 

And a little lamb quite clean and tame 
That I can take to town: 


101 


Rhymes for Little Ones 


And when I’m getting really old, 

—At twenty-eight or nine— 

I shall buy a little orphan-girl 
And bring her up as mine. 

Laurence Alma-Tadema. 


MR. NOBODY. 

1 know a funny little man, 

As quiet as a mouse, 

Who does the mischief that is done 
In everybody’s house! 

There’s no one ever sees his face, 

And yet we all agree 

That every plate we break was cracked 
By Mr. Nobody. 

’Tis he who always tears our books, 
Who leaves the door ajar, 

He pulls the buttons from our shirts, 
And scatters pins afar; 

That squeaking door will always 
squeak 

For, prithee, don’t you see, 

We leave the oiling to be done 
By Mr. Nobody. 

He puts damp wood upon the fire, 
That kettles cannot boil; 

His are the feet that bring in mud, 
And all the carpets soil. 

The papers always are mislaid, 

Who had them last but he? 

There’s no one tosses them about 
But Mr. Nobody. 

The finger-marks upon the door 
By none of us are made; 

We never leave the blinds unclosed, 
To let the curtains fade. 

The ink we never spill, the boots 
That lying round you see 

Are not our boots; they all belong 
To Mr. Nobody. 

Unknown. 


BED IN SUMMER. 

In winter I get up at night 
And dress by yellow candle-light. 
In summer, quite the other way, 

I have to go to bed by day. 

I have to go to bed and see 
The birds still hopping on the tree. 
Or hear the grown-up people’s feet 
Still going past me in the street. 

And does it not seem hard to you, 
When all the sky is clear and blue, 
And I should like so much to play, 
To have to go to bed by day? 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 


A THOUGHT. 

It is very nice to think 
The world is full of meat and drink, 
With little children saying grace 
In every Christian kind of place. 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 


AT THE SEASIDE. 

When I was down beside the sea 
A wooden spade they gave to me 
To dig the sandy shore. 

My holes were empty like a cup, 
In every hole the sea came up. 

Till it could come no more. 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 


WHOLE DUTY OF CHILDREN. 

A child should always say what’s true 
And speak when he is spoken to, 

And behave mannerly at table; 

At least as far as he is able. 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 


102 


Poems for Children 


FOREIGN LANDS. 

Up into the cherry tree 
Who should climb but little me ? 

I held the trunk with both my hands 
And looked abroad on foreign lands. 

I saw the next door garden lie, 
Adorned with flowers, before my eye, 
And many pleasant places more 
That I had never seen before. 

I saw the dimpling river pass 
And be the sky’s blue looking-glass; 
The dusty roads go up and down 
With people tramping in to town. 

If I could find a higher tree 
Farther and farther I should see, 

To where the grown-up river slips 
Into the sea among the ships, 

To where the roads on either hand 
Lead onward into fairy land, 

Where all the children dine at five, 
And all the playthings come alive. 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 


A GOOD PLAY. 

We built a ship upon the stairs 
All made of the back-bedroom chairs, 
And filled it full of sofa pillows 
To go a-sailing on the billows. 

We took a saw and several nails, 

And water in the nursery pails; 

And Tom said, “Let us also take 
An apple and a slice of cake; ’ ’— 
Which was enough for Tom and me 
To go a-sailing on, till tea. 


We sailed along for days and days, 
And had the very best of plays; 

But Tom fell out and hurt his knee, 
So there was no one left but me. 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 


THE LAND OF COUNTERPANE. 

When I was sick and lay a-bed, 

I had two pillows at my head, 

And all my toys beside me lay 
To keep me happy all the day. 


And sometimes for an hour or so 
I Avatched my leaden soldiers go, 

With different uniforms and drills, 
Among the bed-clothes, through the 
hills; 


And sometimes sent my ships in fleets 
All up and down among the sheets; 
Or brought my trees and houses out, 
And planted cities all about. 


I was the giant great and still 
That sits upon the pillow-hill, 

And sees before him, dale and plain, 
The pleasant land of counterpane. 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 


MY SHADOW. 

I have a little shadow that goes in and 
out with me, 

And what can be the use of him is 
more than I can see. 

He is very, very like me from the heels 
up to the head; 

And I see him jump before me, when 
I jump into my bed. 


Rhymes for Little Ones 


The funniest thing about him is the 
way he likes to grow— 

Not at all like proper children, which 
is always very slow; 

For he sometimes shoots up taller like 
an India-rubber ball, 

And he sometimes gets so little that 
there’s none of him at all. 

He liasn’t got a notion of how children 
ought to play, 

And can only make a fool of me in 
every sort of way. 

He stays so close beside me, he’s a 
coward you can see; 

I’d think shame to stick to nursie as 
that shadow sticks to me! 

One morning very early, before the 
sun was up, 

I rose and found the shining dew or 
every buttercup; 

But my lazy little shadow, like an 
arrant sleepy-head, 

Had stayed at home behind me and 
was fast asleep in bed. 

Robert Louis Stevenson . 


ESCAPE AT BEDTIME. 

The lights from the parlor and 
kitchen shone out 

Through the blinds and the windows 
and bars; 

And high overhead and all moving 
about, 

There were thousands of millions of 
stars. 

There ne’er were such thousands of 
leaves on a tree, 

Nor of people in church or the Park, 

As the crowds of the stars that looked 
down upon me, 

And that glittered and winked in the 
dark. 


103 

The Dog, and the Plough, and the 
Hunter, and all 

And the Star of the Sailor, and Mars, 

These shone in the sky, and the pail 
by the wall 

Would be half full of water and stars. 

They saw me at last, and they chased 
me with cries, 

And they soon had me packed into 
bed; 

But the glory kept shining and bright 
in my eyes, 

And the stars going round in my head. 

Robert Louis Stevenso7i. 


MARCHING SONG. 

Bring the comb and play upon it! 
Marching, here we come! 

Willie cocks his highland bonnet, 
Johnnie beats the drum. 

Mary Jane commands the party, 

Peter leads the rear; 

Feet in time, alert and hearty, 

Each a Grenadier! 

All in the most martial manner 
Marching double-quick; 

While the napkin like a banner 
Waves upon the stick! 

Here’s enough of fame and pillage, 
Great commander Jane! 

Now that we’ve been round the village, 
Let’s go home again. 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 


HAPPY THOUGHT. 

The world is so full of a number of 
things, 

I’m sure we should all be as happy as 
kings. 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 


Poems for Children 


104 

THE WIND. 

I saw you toss the kites on high 
And blow the birds about the sky; 
And all around I heard you pass, 
Like ladies’ skirts across the grass— 
0 wind, a-blowing all day long, 

0 wind, that sings so loud a song! 

I saw the different things you did, 
But always you yourself you hid. 

I felt you push, I heard you call, 

I could not see yourself at all— 

0 wind, a-blowing all day long, 

0 wind, that sings so loud a song! 

0 you that are so strong and cold, 

O blower, are you young or old ? 

Are you a beast of field and tree, 

Or just a stronger child than me? 

0 wind, a-blowing all day long, 

0 wind, that sings so loud a song! 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 


GOOD AND BAD CHILDREN. 

Children, you are very little, 

And your bones are very brittle; 

If you would grow great and stately, 
You must try to walk sedately. 

You must still be bright and quiet, 
And content with simple diet; 

And remain, through all bewild’ring, 
Innocent and honest children. 

Happy hearts and happy faces, 
Happy play in grassy places— 

That was how, in ancient ages, 
Children grew to kings and sages. 

But the unkind and the unruly, 

And the sort who eat unduly, 

They must never hope for glory— 
Theirs is quite a different story! 


Cruel children, crying babies, 

All grow up as geese and gabies, 
Hated, as their age increases, 

By their nephews and their nieces. 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 


THE LAMPLIGHTER. 

My tea is nearly ready and the sun has 
left the sky; 

It’s time to take the window to see 
Leerie going by; 

For every night at teatime and before 
you take your seat, 

With lantern and with ladder he 
comes posting up the street. 

Now Tom would be a driver and 
Maria go to sea, 

And my papa’s a banker and as rich 
as he can be; 

But I, when I am stronger and can 
choose what I’m to do, 

0 Leerie, I’ll go round at night and 
light the lamps with you! 

For we are very lucky, with a lamp 
before the door, 

And Leerie stops to light it as he 
lights so many more; 

And 0! before you hurry by with 
ladder and with light, 

0 Leerie, see a little child and nod to 
him to-night! 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 


MY BED IS A BOAT. 

My bed is like a little boat; 

Nurse helps me in when I embark; 
She girds me in my sailor’s coat 
And starts me in the dark. 



© G. W. J. & CO. 


Wind, a-blowing all day long 


THE WIND 






Rhymes for Little Ones 


At night, I go on board and say 
Good night to all my friends on 
shore; 

I shut my eyes and sail away 
* And see and hear no more. 

And sometimes things to bed I take, 
As prudent sailors have to do; 
Perhaps a slice of wedding-cake, 
Perhaps a toy or two. 

All night across the dark we steer; 

But when the day returns at last, 
Safe in my room, beside the pier, 

I find my vessel fast. 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 


THE SWING. 

How do you like to go up in a swing, 
Up in the air so blue? 

Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing 
Ever a child can do! 

Up in the air and over the wall, 

Till I can see so wide, 

Rivers and trees and cattle and all 
Over the countryside— 

Till I look down on the garden green, 
Down on the roof so brown— 

Up in the air I go flying again, 

Up in the air and down! 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 

FAREWELL TO THE FARM. 

The coach is at the door at last; 

The eager children, mounting fast 
And kissing hands, in chorus sing: 
Good-bye, good-bye, to everything! 

To house and garden, field and lawn, 
The meadow-gates we swang upon, 

To pump and stable, tree and swing, 
Good-bye, good-bye, to everything! 


105 

And fare you well for evermore, 

O ladder at the hayloft door, 

0 hayloft where the cobwebs cling, 
Good-bye, good-bye, to everything! 

Crack goes the whip, and off we go; 
The trees and houses smaller grow; 
Last, round the woody turn we swing: 
Good-bye, good-bye, to everything! 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 


THE LAND OF STORY-BOOKS. 

At evening when the lamp is lit, 
Around the fire my parents sit; 

They sit at home and talk and sing, 
And do not play at anything. 

Now, with my little gun, I crawl 
All in the dark along the wall, 

And follow round the forest track 
Away behind the sofa back. 

There, in the night, where none can 

spy, 

All in my hunter’s camp I lie, 

And play at books that I have read 
Till it is time to go to bed. 

These are the hills, these are the woods, 
These are my starry solitudes; 

And there the river by whose brink 
The roaring lions come to drink. 

I see the others far away 
As if in firelit camp they lay, 

And I, like to an Indian scout, 
Around their party prowled about. 

So, when my nurse comes in for me, 
Home I return across the sea, 

And go to bed with backward looks 
At my dear land of Story-books. 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 


io6 


Poems for Children 


THE GARDENER. 

The gardener does not love to talk, 
He makes me keep the gravel walk; 
And when he puts his tools away, 

He locks the door and takes the key. 

Away behind the currant row 
Where no one else but cook may go, 
Far in the plots, I see him dig, 

Old and serious, brown and big. 

He digs the flowers, green, red, and 
blue, 

Nor wishes to be spoken to. 

He digs the flowers and cuts the hay, 
And never seems to want to play. 

Silly gardener! summer goes, 

And winter comes with pinching toes, 
When in the garden bare and brown 
You must lay your barrow down. 

Well now, and while the summer stays 
To profit by these garden days 
Oh how much wiser you would be 
To play at Indian wars with me! 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 

A BOY’S MOTHER.* 

My mother she’s so good to me, 

Ef I was good as I could be, 

I couldn’t be as good—no, sir!— 
Can’t any boy be good as her. 

She loves me when I’m glad er sad; 
She loves me when I’m good er bad; 
An’, what’s a funniest thing, she says 
She loves me when she punishes. 

I don’t like her to punish me,— 

That don’t hurt—but it hurts to see 

* From the Biographical Edition of the 
Complete Works of James Whitcomb Riley, 
Copyright, 1913, by special pe^nission of 
the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Com¬ 
pany. 


Her cryin’.—Nen I cry; an’ nen 
We both cry an’ be good again. 

She loves me when she cuts an ’ sews 
My little cloak an’ Sund’y clothes; 
An’ when my Pa comes home to tea, 
She loves him most as much as me. 

She laughs an ’ tells him all I said, 

An ’ grabs me up an ’ pats my head; 
An’ I hug her, an’ hug my Pa, 

An’ love him purt’ nigh as much as 
Ma. 

James Whitcomb Riley. 


“ONE, TWO, THREE.” 

It was an old, old, old, old lady 
And a boy that was half-past three. 
And the way that they played to¬ 
gether 

Was beautiful to see. 

She couldn’t go romping and jump¬ 
ing, 

And the boy, 110 more could he; 
For he was a thin little fellow, 

With a thin little twisted knee. 

They sat in the yellow sunlight, 

Out under the maple tree, 

And the game that they played I’ll 
tell you, 

Just as it was told to me. 

It was hide-and-go-seek they were 
playing, 

Though you’d never have known it 
to be— 

With an old, old, old, old lady 
And a boy with a twisted knee. 

The boy would bend his face down 
On his little sound right knee. 

And he guessed where she was hiding 
In guesses One, Two, Three. 


Rhymes for Little Ones 


‘ k You are in the china closet! ’’ 

He would cry, and laugh with 
glee— 

It wasn’t the china closet, 

But he still has Two and Three. 

‘ ‘ You are up in papa’s big bedroom, 
In the chest with the queer old key, ’ 9 
And she said: “You are warm and 
warmer; 

But you are not quite right,” said 
she. 

“It can’t be the little cupboard 
Where mamma’s things used to be— 
So it must be in the clothes press, 
Gran ’ma, ’ ’ 

And he found her with his Three. 


107 

Then she covered her face with her 
fingers, 

That were wrinkled and white and 
wee, 

And she guessed where the boy was 
hiding, 

With a One and a Two and a Three. 

And they never had stirred from their 
places 

Right under the maple tree— 

This old, old, old, old lady 

And the boy with the lame little 
knee— 

This dear, dear, dear old lady 

And the boy who was half-past 
three. 


H. C. Bunner . 


II 


Cradle Songs 


Bye, baby bunting, 

Daddy’s gone a hunting 
To get a little rabbit-skin 
To wrap a baby bunting in. 


Dance my baby diddy, 

What shall thy mother do with thee ? 
But sit in her lap 
And give it some pap, 

And dance a baby diddy. 

Smile, my baby bonny, 

What shall time bring on thee? 
Sorrow and care, 

Frowns and grey hair, 

So smile my baby bonny. 

Laugh, my baby beauty, 

What will time do to thee ? 

Furrow your cheek, 

Wrinkle your neck, 

So laugh, my baby beauty. 

Dance, my baby deary, 

Thy mother will never be weary, 
Frolic and play 
Now while you may, 

And dance, my baby deary. 


Rocic-a-bye, baby, thy cradle is green; 
Father’s a nobleman, mother’s a 
Queen; 

Betty’s a lady, and wears a gold ring; 
And Johnny’s a drummer, and drums 
for the King. 


Hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree top, 

When the wind blows, the cradle will 
rock; 

When the bough bends, the cradle will 
fall, 

Down will come baby, bough, cradle 
and all. 


Johnny shall have a new bonnet, 

And Johnny shall go to the fair, 
And Johnny shall have a blue ribbon 
To tie up his bonny brown hair, 
And why may I not love Johnny? 

And why may not Johnny love me? 
And why may I not love Johnny, 

As well as another body? 

And here’s a leg for a stocking, 

And here’s a leg for a shoe, 

And he has a kiss for his daddy, 

And two for his mammy, I trow. 
And why may I not love Johnny? 

And why may not Johnny love me? 
And why may I not love Johnny, 

As well as another body? 


SWEET AND LOW. 

Sweet and low, sweet and low, 

Wind of the western sea, 

Low, low, breathe and blow, 

Wind of the western sea! 

Over the rolling waters go, 

Come from the dropping moon and 
blow, 





Cradle 

Blow liim again to me, 

While my little one, while my pretty 
one sleeps. 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, 

Father will come to thee soon; 

Rest, rest, on mother’s breast, 

Father will come to thee soon; 

Father will come to his babe in the 
nest, 

Silver sails all out of the west 
Under the silver moon: 

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty 
one, sleep. 

Alfred Tennyson. 


SLEEP, SLEEP, BEAUTY BRIGHT. 

Sleep, sleep, beauty bright, 
Dreaming in the joys of night; 
Sleep, sleep; in thy sleep 
Little sorrows sit and weep. 

Sweet babe, in thy face 
Soft desires I can trace, 

Secret joys and secret smiles. 

Little pretty infant wiles. 

As thy softest limbs I feel, 

Smiles as of the morning steal 
O ’er thy cheek, and o ’er thy breast 
•Where thy little heart doth rest. 

Oh the cunning wiles that creep 
In thy little heart asleep! 

When thy little heart doth wake 
Then the dreadful night shall break. 

William Blake. 

SWEET DREAMS FORM A SHADE. 

Sweet dreams, form a shade 
O’er my lovely infant’s head; 
Sweet dreams of pleasant streams 
By happy, silent, moony beams. 


Songs 109 

Sweet sleep, with soft down 
Weave thy brows an infant crown. 
Sweet sleep, angel mild, 

Hover 0 ’er my happy child. 

Sweet smiles in the night 
Hover o ’er my delight; 

Sweet smiles, mother’s smiles, 

All the live-long night beguiles. 

Sweet moans, dove-like sighs, 

Chase not slumbers from thy eyes. 
Sweet moans, sweeter smiles, 

All the dove-like moans beguiles. 

Sleep, sleep, happy child, 

All creation slept and smiled; 
Sleep, sleep, happy sleep, 

While o’er thee thy mother weep. 

Sweet babe, in thv face 
Holy image I can trace. 

Sweet babe, once like thee, 

Thy Maker lay and wept for me. 

Wept for me, for thee, for all, 
When He was an infant small; 

Thou His image ever see, 

Heavenly face that smiles on thee. 

Smiles on thee, on me, on all; 

Who became an infant small; 

Infant smiles are His own smiles; 
Heaven and earth to peace beguiles. 

, William Blake. 


LULLABY, O LULLABY. 

Lullaby! 0 lullaby! 

Baby, hush that little cry! 

Light is dying, 

Bats are flying, 

Bees to-day with work have done; 
So, till comes the morrow’s sun, 

Let sleep kiss those bright eyes dry! 
Lullaby! 0 lullaby! 


1 io 


Poems for Children 


Lullaby! 0 lullaby! 

Hush’d are all things far and nigh; 
Flowers are closing, 

Birds reposing, 

All sweet things with life are done. 
Sweet, till dawns the morning sun, 
Sleep then kiss those blue eyes dry! 
Lullaby! 0 lullaby! 

William Cox Bennett . 


THE MOTHER TO HER INFANT. 

Slumber, my darling, no danger is 
near, 

Thy mother sits by thee to guard 
thy repose; 

Though the wind roars aloud, not a 
breath reaches here, 

To shake the white curtains which 
round thee do close: 

Then slumber, my darling, and sleep 
without fear, 

Thou art safe from all danger, my 
dearest, while here. 

What is it the angels do unto thee say, 

When thou dost lie smiling so sweet 
in thy sleep ? 

Are they trying, my sweetest, to lure 
thee away, 

And leave me alone in my sorrow 
to weep? 

Oh! sometimes I fancy they whisper 
thy name, 

And would fain bear thee back to the 
land whence they came. 

Then never, my darling, when thou 
growest old, 

Forget her who on thy sweet in¬ 
fancy smiled, 

To whom thou wert dearer than 
jewels and gold, 


Who studied thy looks and thy 
wishes, my child, 

Who, when thou didst need her, was 
never away, 

In health or in sickness, by night or 
by day. 

Thomas Miller. 


MY DEAREST BABY, GO TO 
SLEEP. 

My dearest baby, go to sleep, 

For now the bright round moon doth 
peep 

On thy little snow-white bed, 

And upon thy pretty head. 

The silver stars are shining bright, 
And bid my baby dear good-night; 
And every bird has gone to rest 
Long since in its little nest. 

The lambs no longer run and leap, 
But by the daisies lie asleep; 

The flowers have closed their pretty 
eyes 

Until the sun again shall rise. 

All things are wrapp’d in sweet re¬ 
pose, 

The dew falls noiseless on the rose; 

So thou must like an angel lie 
Till golden morning streaks the sky. 

Soon will I gently steal to bed. 

And rest beside thy pretty head, 
And all night keep thee snug and 
warm, 

Nestling fondly on my arm. 

Then, dearest baby, go to sleep. 

While the moon doth on thee peep, 
Shining on thy little bed, 

And around thy pretty head. 

Thomas Miller. 


Cradle Songs 


A CRADLE SONG. 

Hush ! my dear, lie still and slumber; 

Holy angels guard thy bed! 
Heavenly blessings without number 
Gently falling on thy head. 

Sleep, my babe; thy food and raiment, 
House and home, thy friends pro¬ 
vide ; 

All without thy care or payment 
All thy wants are well supplied. 

How much better thou ’rt attended 
Than the Son of God could be, 
When from Heaven He descended, 
And became a child like thee! 

Soft and easy is thy cradle: 

Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay: 
When His birthplace was a stable, 
And His softest bed was hay. 

See the kindly shepherds round Him, 
Telling wonders from the sky! 
Where they sought Him, there they 
found Him, 

With His Virgin-Mother by. 

See the lovely Babe a-dressing: 

Lovely Infant, how He smiled! 
When He wept, the mother’s blessing 
Soothed and hush’d the Holy Child. 

Lo, He slumbers in His manger, 
Where the horned oxen fed;— 
Peace, my darling! here’s no danger! 
Here’s no ox a-near thy bed!— 

May’st thou live to know and fear 
Him, 

Trust and love Him all thy days: 
Then go dwell for ever near Him; 

See His face, and sing His praise. 


1 11 

I could give thee thousand kisses, 
Hoping what I most desire: 

Not a mother’s fondest wishes 
Can to greater joys aspire. 

Isaac Watts. 


SLEEP, BABY, SLEEP. 

Sleep, baby, sleep! what ails my dear, 
What ails my darling thus to cry ? 
Be still, my child, and lend thine ear, 
To hear me sing thy lullaby. 

My pretty lamb, forbear to weep; 

Be still, my dear; sweet baby, sleep. 

Sleep, baby, sleep, and nothing fear; 

For whosoever thee offends 
By thy protector threatened are, 

And God and angels are thy friends. 
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; 

Be still, my babe; sweet baby, sleep. 

George Wither. 


LULLABY OF AN INFANT CHIEF. 

Oh, hush thee, my baby! thy sire was 
a knight, 

Thy mother a lady, both lovely and 
bright; 

The woods and the glens, from the 
towers which we see, 

They all are belonging, dear baby, to 
thee. 

Oh, fear not the bugle, though loudly 
it blows! 

It calls but the warders that guard 
thy repose; 

Their bows would be bended, their 
blades would be red, 

Ere the step of a foeman draws near 
to thy bed. 


112 


Poems for Children 


Oh, hush thee, my baby! the time will 
soon come 

When thy sleep shall be broken by 
trumpet and drum; 

Then hush thee, my darling! take rest 
while you may; 

For strife comes with manhood, and 
waking with day. 

Waller Scott. 


And down falls a little dream on thee: 
Sleep, baby, sleep! 

Sleep, baby, sleep! 

The large stars are the sheep, 

The wee stars are the lambs, I guess, 
The fair moon is the shepherdess: 
Sleep, baby, sleep! 

From the German. 


GOOD-NIGHT. 

Baby, baby, lay your head 
On your pretty cradle bed; 

Shut your eye-peeps, now the day 
And the light are gone away; 

All the clothes are tuck’d in tight; 
Little baby, dear, good-night. 

Yes, my darling, well I know 
How the bitter wind doth blow; 
And the winter’s snow and rain 
Patter on the window-pane; 

But they cannot come in here, 

To my little baby dear. 


When little Birdie bye-bye goes, 
Quiet as mice in churches, 

He puts his head where no one knows, 
On one leg he perches. 

When little Babie bye-bye goes, 

On Mother’s arm reposing, 

Soon he lies beneath the clothes, 

Safe in the cradle dozing. 

When pretty Pussy goes to sleep, 

Tail and nose together, 

Then little mice around her creep, 
Lightly as a feather. 


For the window shutteth fast, 

Till the stormy night is past, 

And the curtains warm are spread 
Roundabout her cradle bed; 

So till morning shineth bright, 
Little baby, dear, good-night. 

Jane Taylor . 


When little Babie goes to sleep, 

And he is very near us, 

Then on tip-toe softly creep, 

That Babie may not hear us. 
Lullaby! Lullaby! Lulla, Lulla, Lul¬ 
laby! 


Unknown. 


Hush thee, my babby, 

Lie still with thy daddy, 

Thy mammy has gone to the mill, 
To grind thee some wheat 
To make thee some meat, 
And so, my dear babby, lie still. 


Sleep, baby, sleep! 

Thy father watches the sheep; 

Thy mother is shaking the dream-land 
tree, 


Golden slumbers kiss your eyes, 
Smiles awake you when you rise. 
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry, 
And 1 will sing a lullaby. 

Rock them, rock them, lullaby. 

Care is heavy, therefore sleep you, 
You are care, and care must keep you. 
Sleep, pretty wantons, do not cry, 
And I will sing a lullaby. 

Rock them, rock them, lullaby. 

Thomas Dekker. 






Cradle Songs 


THE DUSTMAN. 

When the toys are growing weary, 
And the twilight gathers in; 

When the nursery still echoes 
With the children’s merry din; 

Then unseen, unheard, unnoticed 
Comes an old man up the stair, 
Lightly to the children passes, 

Lays his hand upon their hair. 

Softly smiles the good old Dustman; 

In their eyes the dust he throws, 
Till their little heads are falling, 

And their weary eyes must close. 

Then the Dustman very gently 
Takes each little dimpled hand 
Leads them through the sweet green 
shadows, 

Far away in slumberland. 

Frederic Edward Weatherly . 

WYNKEN, BLYNKEN, AND NOD. 

(Dutch Lullaby.) 

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night 
Sailed off in a wooden shoe,— 

Sailed on a river of crystal light 
Into a sea of dew. 

“Where are you going, and what do 
you wish?” 

The old moon asked the three. 

“We have come to fish for the herring 
fish 

That live in this beautiful sea; 

Nets of silver and gold have we!” 
Said Wynken, 

Blynken, 

And Nod. 

The old moon laughed and sang a 
song, 

As they rocked in the wooden shoe; 
And the wind that sped them all night 
long 


1 ! 3 

Ruffled the waves of dew. 

The little stars were the herring fish 
That lived in that beautiful sea— 
“Now cast your nets wherever you 
wish,— 

Never afeard are we!” 

So cried the stars to the fishermen 
three, 

Wynken, 

Blynken, 

And Nod. 


All night long their nets they threw 
To the stars in the twinkling foam,— 
Then down from the skies came the 
wooden shoe, 

Bringing the fishermen home: 
’Twas all so pretty a sail, it seemed 
As if it could not be; 

And some folk thought ’twas a dream 
they’d dreamed 
Of sailing that beautiful sea; 

But I shall name you the fishermen 
three: 

Wynken, 

Blynken, 

And Nod. 


Wynken and Blynken are two little 

eyes, 

And Nod is a little head, 

And the wooden shoe that sailed the 
skies 

Is a wee one’s trundle-bed; 

So shut your eyes while Mother sings 
Of wonderful sights that be, 

And you shall see the beautiful things 
As you rock in the misty sea 
Where the old shoe rocked the fish¬ 
ermen three:— 

Wynken, 

Blynken, 

And Nod. 

Eugene Field. 


Ill 


•* 


Nursery Rhymes 


One, two, 

Buckle my shoe; 
Three, four, 

Shut the door; 

Five, six, 

Pick up sticks; 

Seven, eight, 

Lay them straight; 
Nine, ten, 

A good fat hen; 
Eleven, twelve, 

Who will delve? 
Thirteen, fourteen, 
Maids a courting; 
Fifteen, sixteen, 
Maids a kissing; 
Seventeen, eighteen, 
Maids a waiting; 
Nineteen, twenty, 

My stomach’s empty. 


A was an apple-pie: 
B bit it; 

C cut it; 

D dealt it; 

E ate it; 

F fought for it; 

G got it; 

H had it; 

J joined it; 

K kept it; 

L longed for it; 

M mourned for it; 
N nodded at it; 

0 opened it; 

P peeped in it; 


Q quartered it; 

R ran for it; 

S stole it; 

T took it; 

Y viewed it; 

W wanted it; 

X, Y, Z, and amperse—and 
All wish’d for a piece in hand. 

TOM THUMB’S ALPHABET. 

A was an archer, who shot at a frog; 
B was a butcher, he had a great dog; 

C was a captain, all covered with lace; 
D was a drunkard, and had a red face; 
E was an esquire, with pride on his 
brow; 

F was a farmer, and followed the 
plough; 

G was a gamester, who had but ill 
luck; 

I was an innkeeper, who loved to 
bouse; 

J was a joiner, and built up a house; 
K is King Edward, who governs Eng¬ 
land ; 

L was a lady, who had a white hand; 
M was a miser, and hoarded up gold; 
N was a nobleman, gallant and bold; 
O was an oyster girl, and went about 
town; 

P was a parson, and wore a black 
gown; 

Q was a queen, who wore a silk slip; 
R was a robber, who wanted a whip; 
S was a sailor, and spent all he got; 

T was a tinker, and mended a pot; 



Nursery 

r was an usurer, a miserable elf; 

V was a vintner, who drank all him¬ 

self; 

W was a watchman, and guarded the 
door; 

X was expensive, and so became poor; 

Y was a youth, that did not love 

school; 

Z was a zany, a poor harmless fool. 


One old Oxford ox opening oysters; 

Two tee-totums totally tired of trying 
to trot to Tadbury; 

Three tall tigers tippling tenpenny 
tea; 

Four fat friars fanning fainting fleas; 

Five frippy Frenchmen foolishly fish¬ 
ing for flies; 

Six sportsmen shooting snipes; 

Seven Severn salmons swallowing 
shrimps; 

Eight Englishmen eagerly examining 
Europe; 

Nine nimble noblemen nibbling non¬ 
pareils ; 

Ten tinkers tinkling upon ten tin 
tinder-boxes with ten tenpenny 
tacks; 

Eleven elephants elegantly equip!; 

Twelve topographical topographers 
typically translating types. 


BIRTHDAYS. 

Monday's child is fair of face, 
Tuesday’s child is full of grace, 
Wednesday’s child is full of woe, 
Thursday’s child has far to go, 
Friday’s child is loving and giving, 
Saturday’s child works hard for its 
living, 

And a child that’s born on the Sab¬ 
bath day 

Is fair and wise and good and gay. 


Rhymes 115 

Thirty days hath September, 

April, June, and November; 
February has twenty-eight alone. 

All the rest have thirty-one, 
Excepting leap-year, that’s the time 
When February’s days are twenty- 
nine. 


Multiplication is vexation, 
Division is as bad; 

The Rule of Three perplexes me 
And Practice drives me mad. 


There was a monkey climb'd up a 
tree, 

When he fell down, then down fell he. 

There was a crow sat on a stone, 

When he was gone, then there was 
none. 

There was an old wife did eat an 
apple, 

When she had eat two, she had eat a 
couple. 

There was a horse going to a mill, 

When he went on, he stood not still. 

There was a butcher cut his thumb, 

When it did bleed, then blood did 
come. 

There was a jockey ran a race, 

When he ran fast, he ran apace. 

There was a cobbler clouting shoon, 

When they were mended, they were 
done. 

There was a navy went into Spain, 

When it return’d, it came again. 





116 Poems for Children 


Sing a song of sixpence, 

A pocket full of rye; 

Four and twenty blackbirds 
Baked in a pie; 

When the pie was opened 
The birds began to sing; 

Was not that a dainty dish 
To set before the king? 

The king was in his counting-house 
Counting out his money; 

The queen was in the parlour 
Eating bread and honey; 

The maid was in the garden 
Hanging out the clothes, 

There came a little blackbird 
And snapt off her nose. 


When good King Arthur ruled this 
land, 

He was a goodly king; 

He stole three pecks of barley meal, 
To make a bag-pudding. 

A bag-pudding the King did make, 
And stuff’d it well with plums; 
And in it put great lumps of fat, 

As big as my two thumbs. 

The king and queen did eat thereof, 
And noblemen beside; 

And what they could not eat that 
night, 

The queen next morning fried. 


Poor old Robinson Crusoe! 
Poor old Robinson Crusoe! 
They made him a coat 
Of an old nanny goat, 

I wonder how they could do so! 
With a ring a ting tang, 

And a ring a ting tang, 

Poor old Robinson Crusoe! 


Doctor Faustus was a good man, 

He whipt his scholars now and then; 
When he whipp’d them he made them 
dance 

Out of Scotland into France, 

Out of France into Spain, 

And then he whipp’d them back 
again! 


Old King Cole 
Was a merry old soul, 

And a merry old soul was he; 

He called for his pipe, 

And he called for his bowl, 

And he called for his fiddlers three. 
Every fiddler, he had a fiddle, 

And a very fine fiddle had he; 

Twee tweedle dee, tweedle dee, 
Went the fiddlers. 

Oh, there’s none so rare, 

As can compare 

With King Cole and his fiddlers 
three! 


As Tommy Snooks and Bessy Brooks 
Were walking out one Sunday, 

Said Tommy Snooks to Bessy Brooks, 
‘*To-morrow will be Monday.” 


The man in the wilderness asked me, 
How many strawberries grew in the 
sea? 

I answered him as I thought good, 

As many as red herrings grew in the 
wood. 


Pussicat, wussicat, with a white foot, 
When is your wedding? for I’ll come 
to’t. 

The beer’s to brew, the bread’s to 
bake, 

Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, don’t be too late. 








Nursery Rhymes 


JENNY WREN. 

Jenny Wren fell sick 
Upon a merry time; 

In came Robin Redbreast, 

And brought her sops and wine. 

Eat well of the sop, Jenny, 

Drink well of the wine; 

Thank you, Robin, kindly, 

You shall be mine. 

Jenny, she got well, 

And stood upon her feet, 

And told Robin plainly, 

She lov’d him not a bit. 

Robin being angry, 

Hopped upon a twig, 

Saying, Out upon you, Jenny! 

Fy upon you, bold faced jig! 


Upon a great black horse-ily 
A man came riding cross-ily; 

A lady out did come-ily, 

Said she, ‘‘No one’s at home-ily, 

“But only little people-y, 

Who’ve gone to bed to sleep-ily.” 

The rider on his horse-ily 
Said to the lady, cross-ily, 

“But are they bad or good-ily? 

I want it understood-ily.” 

“Oh, they act bad and bold-ily, 

And don’t do what they’re told-ily.” 

“Good-by!” said he, “dear Ma’am- 

ily, 

I’ve nothing for your family.” 

And scampered off like mouse-ily 
Away, way from the house-ily. 


"7 

A SONG SET TO FIVE FINGERS. 

1. This little pig went to market. 

2. This little pig stayed at home. 

3. This little pig got roast beef. 

4. This little pig got none. 

5. This little pig cried wee, wee, all the 

way home. 


There were two blackbirds, 
Sitting on a hill, 

The one named Jack, 

The other named Jill; 

Fly away, Jack! 

Fly away, Jill! 

Come again, Jack! 

Come again, Jill! 


There was a little Rabbit sprig, 
Which being little was not big; 

He always walked upon his feet, 

And never fasted when he eat. 

When from a place he ran away, 

He never at that place did stay; 

And when he ran, as I am told, 

He ne’er stood still for young or old. 
Tho’ ne’er instructed by a cat, 

He knew a mouse was not a rat: 

One day, as I am certified, 

He took a whim and fairly died; 
And, as I’m told, by men of sense, 
He never has been walking since. 


Sing, sing, what shall I sing? 

The cat has eaten the pudding-string! 
Do, do, what shall I do? 

The cat has bitten it quite in two. 


A cat came fiddling out of a barn, 

With a pair of bagpipes under her 
arm; 

She could sing nothing but fiddle cum 
fee, 

The mouse has married the bumble¬ 
bee. 







;i8 Poems for 

Pipe, cat—dance, mouse, 

Well have a wedding at our good 
house. 


A Fkog he would a wooing go, 

Sing liciglio says Rowley, 
Whether his mother would let him 
or no. 

With a rowley powley gammon 
and spinach, 

Heigho says Anthony Rowley. 

So off he marched with his opera hat, 
Heigho says Rowley, 

And on the way he met with a rat, 
With a rowley powley, etc. 

And when they came to the mouse’s 
hall, 

Heigho says Rowley, 

They gave a loud knock, and they 
gave a loud call, 

With a rowley powley, etc. 

Pray, Mrs. Mouse, are you within ? 

Heigho says Rowley, 

Yes, kind sir, I am sitting to spin, 
With a rowley powley, etc. 

Pray, Mrs. Mouse, will you give us 
some beer ? 

Heigho says Rowley, 

For Froggy and I are fond of good 
cheer, 

With a rowley powley, etc. 

Now while they were all a merry¬ 
making, 

Heigho says Rowley, 

The cat and her kittens came tum¬ 
bling in, 

With a rowley powley, etc. 


Children 

The cat she seized the rat by the 
crown, 

Heigho says Rowley, 

The kittens they pulled the little 
mouse down, 

With a rowley powley, etc. 

This put poor Frog in a terrible 
fright, 

Heigho says Rowley, 

So he took up his hat, and he wished 
them good-night, 

With a rowley powley, etc. 

But as Froggy was crossing over a 
brook, 

Heigho says Rowley, 

A lily-white duck came and gobbled 
him up. 

With a rowley powley, etc. 

So there was an end of one, two and 
three, 

Heigho says Rowley, 

The rat, the mouse, and the little 
Froggie! 

With a rowley powley gammon 
and spinach, 

Heigho says Anthony Rowley. 


A little cock-sparrow sat on a green 
tree, 

And he cherruped, he cherruped, so 
merry was he; 

A naughty boy came with his wee 
bow and arrow, 

Determined to shoot this little cock- 
sparrow. 

This little cock-sparrow shall make 
me a stew, 

And his giblets shall make me a little 
pie, too; 

Oh, no! said the sparrow, I won f t 
make a stew, 

So he flapped his wings and away he 
flew! 




Nursery Rhymes 


A carrion crow sat on an oak, 

Fol cle riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding 
do, 

Watching a tailor shape his cloak; 
Sing heigh ho, the carrion crow, 
Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding 
do. 


Wife bring me mj 7 old bent bow, 

Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding 
do, 

That I mav shoot von carrion crow; 
Sing heigh ho, the carrion crow, 

Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi cling 
do. 


The tailor he shot and missed his 
mark, 

Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding 
do; 

And shot his own sow quite through 
the heart; 

Sing heigh ho, the carrion crow, 

Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding 
do. 


Wife bring brandy in a spoon; 

Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding 
do, 

For our old sow is in a swoon; 

Sing heigh ho, the carrion crow, 

Fol de riddle, lol de riddle, hi ding 
do. 


Ba, ba, black sheep, 

Have you any wool? 

Yes sir, no sir, 

Three bags full. 

One for my master, 

And one for my dame, 
But none for the little boy 
Who cries in the lane. 


n 9 

Bat, bat, come under my hat, 

And I ’ll give you a slice of bacon; 
And when I bake, 

Ill give you a cake, 

If I am not mistaken. 


Cock a doodle doo! 

My dame has lost her shoe; 

My master’s lost his fiddling stick, 
And don’t know what to do. 

Cock a doodle doo! 

What is my dame to do? 

Till master finds his fiddling stick, 
She’ll dance without her shoe. 

Cock a doodle doo! 

My dame has found her shoe, 

And master’s found his fiddling stick, 
Sing doodle doodle do! 

Cock a doodle doo! 

My dame will dance with you, 

While master fiddles his fiddling stick, 
For dame and doodle doo. 


The Cuckoo is a fine bird, 

He sings as he flies, 

He brings us good tidings, 

He tells us no lies. 

He sucks little birds’ eggs 
To make his voice clear, 
And when he sings “Cuckoo,” 
The summer is near. 


Diddledy, diddledy, dumpty; 
The cat ran up the plum-tree. 

I lay you a crown 
I ’ll fetch you down; 

So diddledy, diddledy, dumpty. 






120 


Poems for Children 


Ding, dong, bell, 

Pussy’s in the well! 

Who put her in ? 

Little Tommy Lin. 

Who pulled her out? 

Dog with long snout. 

What a naughty boy was that 
To drown poor pussy-cat, 

Who never did any harm, 

But kill’d the mice in his master’s 
barn. 


Goosey, goosey gander, 

Whither shall I wander? 

Up stairs, down stairs, 

And in my lady’s chamber: 
There I met an old man 

That would not say his prayers, 
I took him by the left leg, 

And threw him down stairs. 


Hark, hark, 

The dogs do bark, 
Beggars are coming to town; 
Some in jags 
Some in rags 
And some in velvet gowns. 


Hi! diddle diddle, 

The cat and the fiddle, 

The cow jumped over the moon; 
The little dog laughed 
To see such sport, 

While the dish ran after the spoon. 


I had a little pony, 

His mane was dapple gray, 

I sent him to a lady, 

To ride a mile away. 

She whipped him, she slashed him, 
She rode him through the mire; 
I would not lend my pony now 
For the lady’s hire. 


Lady-bird, lady-bird, fly away home, 
Thy house is on fire, thy children all 
gone, 

All but one that lies under a stone, 
Fly thee home, lady-bird, ere it is 
gone. 

POOR COCK ROBIN. 

Who killed Cock Robin? 

I, said the Sparrow, 

With my bow and arrow, 

I killed Cock Robin. 

Who saw him die? 

I, said the Magpie, 

With my little eye, 

I saw him die. 

Who caught his blood? 

I, said the Fish, 

With my little dish, 

I caught his blood. 

Who made his shroud? 

I, said the Eagle, 

With my thread and needle, 

I made his shroud. 

Who’ll dig his grave? 

The Owl, with aid 
Of mattock and spade 
Will dig Robin’s grave. 


Higglepy, Piggleby, 
My black hen, 

She lays eggs 
For gentlemen; 
Sometimes nine, 

And sometimes ten, 
Higglepy, Piggleby, 
My black hen. 


Who’ll be the parson? 
I, said the Rook, 
With my little book, 
I’ll be the parson. 







Nursery Rhymes 


Who'll be the clerk? 

I, said the Lark, 

If not in the dark, 

I’ll be the clerk. 

Who’ll carry him to the grave? 
I, said the Kite, 

If not in the night, 

I ’ll carry him to his grave. 

Who’ll be chief mourner? 

I, said the Swan, 

I’m sorry he’s gone, 

I’ll be chief mourner. 

Who’ll bear his pall? 

We, said the Wren, 

Both the cock and the hen, 
We’ll bear the pall. 

Who’ll toll the bell? 

I, said the Bull, 

Because I can pull, 

And I’ll pull the bell. 

Who’ll lead the way? 

I, said the Martin, 

When ready for starting, 
And I’ll lead the way. 

All the birds in the air 
Began sighing and sobbing, 
When they heard the bell toll 
For poor Cock Robin. 

To all it concerns, 

This notice apprises, 

The sparrow’s for trial 
At next bird assizes. 


Why is Pussy in bed? 

She is sick, says the fly. 
And I fear she will die; 
And that’s why she’s in bed. 


121 

Pray what’s her disorder? 

A lock’d-jaw is come on, 

Said the fine downy swan; 

And that’s her disorder. 

Who makes her nice gruel? 

That she might not get worse, 
Dog Tray is her nurse, 

And makes her nice gruel. 

Pray who is her doctor? 

I, said famed Mister Punch, 

At my back a great hunch; 

But I am her doctor. 

Who thinks she’ll recover? 

I do, sir, said the Deer, 

And I thought so last year; 

I think she’ll recover. 

And when Puss is quite well, 

All shall have noble fare; 
Beasts, and fowls of the air, 
And we’ll ring the great bell. 


Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, where have you 
been ? 

I’ve been to London to look at the 
queen. 

Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, what did you 
there ? 

I frighten’d a little mouse under the 
chair. 


Sneel, snaul. 

Robbers are coming to pull down your 
wall; 

Sneel, snaul. 

Put out your horn, 

Robbers are coming to steal your corn, 
Coming at four o ’clock in the morn. 


The Fox jumped up on a moonlight 
night, 

The stars were shining and all things 
bright; 






122 Poems for Children 


“Oh, oh!” said the Fox, “it’s a very 
fine night 

For me to go through the town, 
e’oh!” 

The Fox when he came to yonder 
stile, 

He lifted his ears and he listened a 
while; 

“Oh, oh!” said the Fox, “it is but a 
short mile 

From this to yonder town, e’oh!” 

The Fox, when he came to the Farm¬ 
er’s gate, 

Who should he see but the Farmer’s 
Drake, 

“I love you well for your master’s 
sake, 

And I long to be picking your bones 
e’oh!” 

The grey Goose, she ran round the 
haystack, 

“Oh, oh!” said the Fox, “you are 
very fat, 

And you ’ll do very well to ride on my 
back 

From this to yonder town, e’oh!” 

The Farmer’s wife she jumped out 
of bed, 

And out of the window she popped 
her head, 

‘ ‘ Oh husband! oh husband! the Geese 
are all dead, 

For the Fox has been through the 
town, e’oh!” 

The Farmer he loaded his pistol with 
lead, 

And shot the old rogue of a Fox 
through the head, 

“Ah, ah!” said the Farmer, “I think 
you’re quite dead, 

And no more you’ll trouble the town, 
e’oh!” 


The Hart he loves the high wood, 
The Hare she loves the hill, 

The Knight he loves his bright sword, 
The Lady loves her will. 


The Lion and the Unicorn 
Were fighting for the crown; 
The Lion beat the Unicorn 
All round about the town, 
Some gave them white bread, 
And some gave them brown; 
Some gave them plum-cake, 
And sent them out of town. 


There was a frog lived in a well, 
Kitty alone, Kitty alone; 

There was a frog lived in a well 
Kitty alone, and I! 

There was a frog lived in a well, 

And a gay mouse in a mill, 

Cock me cary, Kitty alone, 

Kitty alone and I! 

This frog he would a wooing ride, 
Kitty alone, etc. 

This frog he would a wooing ride 
And on a snail he got astride, 

Cock me cary, etc. 

He rode till he came to my Lady 
Mouse hall, 

Kitty alone, etc. 

He rode till he came to my Lady 
Mouse hall, 

And here he did both knock and call, 
Cock me cary, etc. 

Quoth he, Miss Mouse, I’m come to 
thee, 

Kitty alone, etc. 

Quoth he, Miss Mouse, I’m come to 
thee, 

To see if thou canst fancy me, 

Cock me cary, etc. 




Nursery Rhymes 


Quoth she, Answer I’ll give you none, 
Kitty alone, etc. 

Quoth she, Answer I ’ll give you none, 
Until my Uncle Rat come home, 

Cock me cary, etc. 

And when her Uncle Rat came home, 
Kitty alone, etc. 

And when her Uncle Rat came home, 
Who’s been here since I’ve been gone ? 
Cock me cary, etc. 

Sir, there’s been a worthy gentleman, 
Kitty alone, etc. 

Sir, there’s been a worthy gentleman, 
That’s been here since you’ve been 
gone, 

Cock me cary, etc. 

The frog he came whistling through 
the brook, 

Kitty alone, etc. 

The frog he came whistling through 
the brook, 

And there he met with a daintv duck, 
Cock me cary, etc. 

This duck she swallowed him up with 
a pluck, 

Kitty alone, Kitty alone; 

This duck she swallowed him up with 
a pluck, 

So there’s an end of my history, 

Cock me cary, Kitty alone, 

Kitty alone, and I. 


Pour and twenty tailors went to kill 
a snail, 

The best man among them durst not 
touch her tail; 

She put out her horns like a little 
Kyloe cow, 

Run, tailors, run, or she’ll kill you all 
e’en now. 


12 3 

Hey, my kitten, my kitten, 

And hey, my kitten, my deary, 
Such a sweet pet as this 
Was neither fat nor weary. 


PI ere we go up, up, up, 

And here we go down, down, downy 
And here we go backwards and for¬ 
wards 

And here we go round, round, 
roundy. 


Fiddle-de-dee, fiddle-de-dee, 

The fly has married the humble-bee; 
They went to church, and married was 
she 

The fly has married the humble-bee. 


Pussycat Mole 
Jumped over a coal, 

And in her best petticoat burnt a 
great hole. 

Poor Pussy’s weeping, she’ll have no 
more milk, 

Until her best petticoat’s mended with 

silk. 


Young lambs to sell! 

Young lambs to sell! 

If I’d as much money as I could tell, 
I never would cry—Young lambs to 
sell! 


To market, to market, to buy a fat pig. 
Plome again, home again, dancing 
a jig; 

To market, to market, to buy a fat hog, 
Home again, home again, jiggety- 
jog. 


Please to remember 
The fifth of November, 

Gunpowder treason and plot; 
I know no reason 
Why gunpowder treason 
Should ever be forgot. 









124 


Poems for Children 


Pease-pudding hot, 
Pease-pudding cold, 
Pease-pudding in the pot, 
Nine days old. 

Some like it hot, 

Some like it cold, 

Some like it in the pot, 
Nine days old. 


If all the world were apple pie, 

And all the sea were ink, 

And all the trees were bread and 
cheese, 

What should we have to drink? 


I had a little nut tree, 
Nothing would it bear, 

But a silver nutmeg, 

And a golden pear, 

The King of Spain’s daughter 
Came to visit me, 

And all was because of 
My little nut tree. 

I skipped over water 
I danced over sea. 

And all the birds in the air 
Could not catch me. 


Hot-cross buns! 
Hot-cross buns! 

One a penny, two a penny, 
Hot-cross buns! 

Hot-cross buns! 
Hot-cross buns! 

If you have no daughters, 
Give them to your sons. 


I’ll tell you a story 
About Jack a Nory,— 

And now my story’s begun: 

I’ll tell you another 
About Jack and his brother,— 
And now my story’s done. 


I saw a ship a-sailing, 

A-sailing on the sea; 

And, oh! it was all laden 
With pretty things for thee! 

There were comfits in the cabin, 

And apples in the hold; 

The sails Avere made of silk, 

And the masts were made of gold, 

The four-and-twenty sailors 
That stood between the decks. 

Were four-and-twenty white mice, 
With chains about their necks, 

The captain was a duck, 

With a packet on his back, 

And when the ship began to move, 
The captain said, ‘‘Quack, quack!” 


Is John Smith within? 
Yes, that he is. 

Can he set a shoe? 

Ay, marry, tAvo, 

Here a nail, there a nail 
Tick, tack, too. 


Mr. East gave a feast; 

Mr. North laid the cloth; 
Mr. West did his best; 

Mr. South burnt his mouth 
With eating a cold potato. 


Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man! 
So I Avill, master, as fast as I can: 
Pat it and prick it and mark it with T, 
Put in the oven for Tommy and me. 


As I Avalked by myself, 

And talked to myself, 

Myself said unto me, 

Look to thyself, 

Take care of thyself, 

For nobody cares for thee. 










Nursery 

I answer’d myself, 

And said to myself, 

In the self-same repartee, 

Look to thyself, 

Or not look to thyself, 

The self-same thing will be. 


If I had as much money as I could 
spend, 

I never would cry old chairs to mend; 
Old chairs to mend, old chairs to 
mend; 

I never would cry old chairs to mend. 

If I had as much money as I could tell, 
I never would cry old clothes to sell; 
Old clothes to sell, old clothes to sell; 
I never would cry old clothes to sell. 


One misty, moisty morning, 

When cloudy was the weather, 
There I met an old man 
Clothed all in leather; 

Clothed all in leather, 

With cap under his chin,— 

How do you do, and how do you do, 
And how do you do again? 


I love sixpence, pretty little sixpence, 

I love sixpence, better than my life; 

I spent a penny of it, I gave a penny 
of it, 

And I took fourpencc home 1o my 
wife. 

Oh! my little fourpence, pretty little 
fourpence, 

I love fourpence better than my 
life; 

I spent a penny of it, I gave a penny 
of it, 

And I took twopence home to my 
wife. 


Rhymes 125 

Oh! my little twopence, pretty little 
twopence, 

I love twopence better than my life; 

I spent a penny of it, I gave a penny 
of it, 

And I took nothing home to my 
wife. 

Oh! my little nothing, pretty little 
nothing, 

What will nothing buy for my wife; 

I have nothing, I spend nothing, 

I love nothing better than my wife. 


There was an old woman who lived in 
a shoe, 

She had so many children she didn’t 
know what to do; 

She gave them some broth without any 
bread, 

She whipped them all round, and put 
them to bed. 


There was an old woman toss’d up in 
a basket 

Nineteen times as high as the moon; 

Where she was going I couldn’t but 
ask it, 

For in her hand she carried a broom. 

“Old woman, old woman, old woman,” 
quoth I, 

“0 whither, 0 whither, O whither, 
so high?” 

“To brush the cobwebs off the sky!” 

‘ ‘ Shall I go with thee ? ” “ Ay, by. 

and-by. ’ ’ 


There was an old woman 
Lived under a hill; 
And if she’s not gone, 
She lives there still. 








126 


Poems for Children 


There was an old woman, and what 
do you think? 

She lived upon nothing but victuals 
and drink: 

Victuals and drink were the chief of 
her diet: 

This tiresome old woman could never 
be quiet. 

She went to the baker to buy her some 
bread, 

And when she came home her old hus¬ 
band was dead; 

She went to the clerk to toll the bell, 

And when she came back her old hus¬ 
band was well. 


Here's a poor widow from Babylon 
With six poor children all alone: 

One can bake and one can brew, 

One can shape, and one can sew, 

One can sit at the fire and spin, 

One can bake a cake for the king. 
Come choose you east, come choose 
you west, 

Come choose you the one that you love 
the best. 


There was a little man, 

And he had a little gun, 

And his bullets were made of lead, 
lead, lead; 

He shot Johnny King 
Through the middle of his wig, 
And knocked it right off his head, 
head, head. 


Old Mother Hubbard 
Went to the cupboard, 

To get her poor dog a bone: 
But Avhen she came there 
The cupboard was bare, 

And so the poor dog had none. 


She went to the baker's 
To buy him some bread, 
But when she came back 
The poor dog was dead. 

She went to the joiner's 
To buy him a coffin, 
When she came back 
The dog was laughing. 

She took a clean dish 
To get him some tripe, 
But when she came back 
He was smoking his pipe. 

She went to the fishmonger’ 
To buy him some fish, 
And when she came back 
He was licking the dish. 

She went to the ale-house 
To get him some beer, 

But when she came back 
The dog sat in a chair. 

She went to the tavern 
For white wine and red, 
But when she came back 
The dog stood on his head. 

She went to the hatter’s 
To buy him a hat, 

And when she came back 
He was feeding the cat. 

She went to the barber’s 
To buy him a wig, 

But when she came back 
He was dancing a jig. 


She went to the fruiterer’s 
To buy him some fruit, 
But when she came back 
He was playing the flute. 





Nursery Rhymes 


She went to the tailor’s 
To buy him a coat. 

But when she came back 
He was riding a goat. 

She went to 1 lie cobbler’s 
To buy him some shoes, 

But when she came back 
He was reading the news. 

She went to the sempstress 
To buy him some linen, 

But when she came back 
The dog was spinning. 

She went to the hosier’s 
To buy him some hose, 

But when she came back 

He was dress’d in his clothes. 

The dame made a curtsey, 

The dog made a bow, 

The dame said, “your servant,” 
The dog said, “bow-wow.” 


Thrre was a little man, 

And he woo’d a little maid, 

And he said, “Little maid, will you 
wed, wed, wed? 

I have little more to say. 

Then will you, yea or nay, 

For least said is soonest mended, ded, 
ded, ded.” 

The little maid replied, 

Some say a little sighed, 

“But what shall we have for to eat, 
eat, eat? 

Will the love that you’re so rich in, 
Make a fire in the kitchen ? 

Or the little god of Love turn the spit, 
spit, spit?” 

There was an old woman, as I’ve 
heard tell, 

She went to the market, her eggs to 
sell; 


127 

She went to the market all on a market 
day, 

And she fell asleep on the King’s 
highway. 

There came by a pedlar, whose name 
was Stout, 

He cut her petticoats all round about; 

He cut her petticoats up to the knees, 

Which made the old woman to shiver 
and freeze. 

When the little woman first did wake, 

She began to shiver and she began to 
shake, 

She began to wonder and she began 
to cry, 

“Oh! deary, deary me, this is none 
of I! 

“But if it be I, as I do hope it be, 

I’ve a little dog at home and he’ll 
know me; 

If it be I, lie’ll wag his little tail, 

And if it be not I, he’ll loudly bark 
and wail.” 

Home went the little woman all in the 
dark, 

Up got the little dog, and he began to 
bark; 

He began to bark, so she began to cry, 

“Oh! deary, deary me, this is none 
of I!”' 


“Old woman, old woman, shall we go 
shearing?” 

“Speak a little louder, sir, I am very 
thick of hearing.” 

“Old woman, old woman, shall I love 
you dearly?” 

“Thank you. kind sir, I hear you very 
clearly.” 





28 


Poems tor Children 


Old Mother Goose, when 
She wanted to wander, 

Would ride through the air 
On a very fine gander. 

Mother Goose had a house, 
’Twas built in a wood 

Where an owl at the door 
For sentinel stood. 

This is her son Jack, 

A plain looking lad, 

He is not very good, 

Nor yet very bad. 

She sent him to market, 

A live goose he bought: 

“Here, mother,” says he, 

“It will not go for nought.” 

Jack’s goose and her gander 
Grew very fond; 

They’d both eat together, 

Or swim in the pond. 

Jack found one morning, 

As I have been told, 

His goose had laid him 
An egg of pure gold. 

Jack rode to his mother. 

The news for to tell; 

She call’d him a good bov. 
And said it was well. 

Jack sold his gold egg 
To a rogue of a Jew, 

Who cheated him out of 
The half of his due. 

Then Jack went a-courting 
A lady so gay, 

As fair as the lily, 

As sweet as the May. 


The Jew and the Squire 
Came behind his back, 

And began to belabour 
The sides of poor Jack. 

Then Old Mother Goose 
That instant came in, 

And turn’d her son Jack 
Into fam’d Harlequin. 

She then with her wand 
Touch’d the lady so fine, 

And turn’d her at once 
Into sweet Columbine. 

The gold egg into the sea 
Was thrown then; 

When Jack jump’d in, 

And got the egg back again. 

The Jew got the goose, 

Which he vow’d he would kill 

Resolving at once 
His pockets to fill. 

Jack’s mother came in, 

And caught the goose soon, 

And mounting its back, 

Flew up to the moon. 


Where are you going, my pretty 
maid ? 

I am going a milking, sir, she said. 

May I go with you, my pretty maid 4 ? 

You’re kindly welcome, sir, she said. 

What is your father, my pretty maid? 

My father’s a farmer, sir, she said. 

Say, will you marry me, my pretty 
maid ? 

Yes, if you please, kind sir, she said. 

Will you be constant, my pretty maid? 

That I can’t promise you, sir, she said. 

Then I won’t marry you, my pretty 
maid! 

Nobody asked you, sir! she said. 



Nursery Rhymes 129 

What are little boys made of, made of, And do you ken Elsie Marley, honey! 
What are little boys made of? The wife who sells the barley, honey; • 

Snaps and snails, and puppy-dogs ’ She won’t get up to serve the swine, 
tails; And do you ken Elsie Marley, honey? 

And that’s what little boys are made 

of, made of. - 


What are little girls made of, made of, 
What are little girls made of? 

Sugar and spice, and all that’s nice; 
And that’s what little girls are made 
of, made of. 


See, saw, Margery Daw, 

Baby shall have a new master. 

She can earn but a penny a day, 
Because she can’t work any faster. 

See, saw, Margery Daw, 

Sold her bed to lie upon straw. 

Was not she a naughty puss, 

To sell her bed to lie on a truss? 


Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross, 
To see an old lady upon a white horse, 
Rings on her fingers, and bells on her 
toe''), 

And *0 st*e makes music wherever she 
poes. 


Polly, put the kettle on, 
Polly, put the kettle on, 
Polly, put the kettle on, 
And let’s drink tea. 

Sukey, take it off again, 
Sukey, take it off again, 
Sukey, take it off again. 
They’re all gone away. 


Elsie Marley is grown so fine, 

She won’t gee up to servo the swine, 
But lies in bed till eight or nine. 
And surely she does take her time. 


Little Miss Muffit, 

Sat on a tuffit, 

Eating of curds and whey; 

There came a great spider 
That sat down beside her, 
And frightened Miss Muffit away. 


Pemmy was a pretty girl, 

But Fanny was a better; 

Pemmy look’d like any churl, 
When little Fanny let her. 

Pemmy had a pretty nose, 

But Fanny had a better; 

Pemmy oft would come to blows, 
But Fanny would not let her. 

Pemmy had a pretty doll, 

But Fanny had a better; 

Pemmy chatter’d like a poll, 
When little Fanny let her. 

Pemmy had a pretty song, 

But Fanny had a better; 

Pemmy would sing all day long, 
But Fanny would not let her. 

Pemmy loved a pretty lad, 

And Fanny loved a better; 

And Pemmy wanted for to wed, 
But Fanny would not let her. 


Pretty maid, 

Pretty maid, 

Where have you been ? 

Gathering a posie 
To give to the queen. 









13 ° 


Poems for Children 


Pretty maid, 

Pretty maid, 

What gave she you ? 

She gave me a diamond 
As big as my shoe. 


Cross patch, 

Draw the latch, 

Sit by the fire and spin; 
Take a cup, 

And drink it up, 

And call your neighbours in. 


Little Bo-peep has lost her sheep, 
And can’t tell where to find them; 

Leave them alone, and they’ll come 
home, 

And bring their tails behind them. 

Little Bo-peep fell fast asleep, 

And dreamt she heard them bleat¬ 
ing; 

And when she awoke, she found it a 
joke, 

For they still were all fleeting. 

Then up she took her little crook, 
Determin’d for to find them; 

She found them indeed, but it made 
her heart bleed, 

For they’d left all their tails behind 
’em. 


Oh! dear! what can the matter be? 

Dear! dear! what can the matter be ? 

Oh! dear! what can the matter be? 

Johnny’s so long at the fair. 

He promis’d he’d buy me a fairing 
should please me, 

And then for a kiss, oh! he vow’d he 
would teaze me; 

He promis’d he’d bring me a bunch 
of blue ribbons 

To tie up my bonny brown hair. 


Oh! dear! what can the matter be? 
Dear! dear! what can the matter be ? 
Oh! dear! what can the matter be? 
Johnny’s so long at the fair. 

He promis’d he’d bring me a basket 
of posies, 

A garland of lilies, a garland of roses, 
A little straw hat, to set off the blue 
ribbons 

That tie up my bonny brown hair. 


Mary, Mary, quite contrary, 

How does your garden grow ? 
With cockle-shells and silver bells 
And columbines all of a row. 


Betty Pringle had a little pig, 

Not very little and not very big. 
When he was alive, he lived in clover, 
But now he’s dead, and that’s all over. 
So Billy Pringle he lay down and 
cried, 

And Betty Pringle she lay down and 
died; 

So there was an end of one, two and 
three: 

Billy Pringle he, 

Betty Pringle she, 

And the piggy-wiggy. 


Mother, may I go in to swim? 

Yes, my darling daughter, 

Hang your clothes on a hickory limb, 
But don’t go near the water. 


Little Polly Flinders, 

Sat among the cinders, 

Warming her pretty little toes; 

Her mother came and caught her, 
And whipped her little daughter 
For spoiling her nice new clothes. 









Nursery 

Bessy Bell and Mary Gray, 

They were two bonny lasses; 
They built their house upon the lea. 
And covered it with rashes. 

Bessy kept the garden gate, 

And Mary kept the pantry; 
Bessy always had to wait, 

While Mary lived in plenty. 


Little Tom Tucker 
Sings for his supper; 
What shall he eat? 

White bread and butter. 
How shall he cut it 
Without e’er a knife? 
How will he be married 
Without e’er a wife? 


Little boy blue, come blow your 
horn, 

The sheep’s in the meadow, the cow’s 
in the corn; 

Where’s the little boy that looks after 
the sheep ? 

He’s under the hay-cock fast asleep. 

Will you wake him? No, not T; 

For if I do, he’ll be sure to cry. 


Who comes here? 

A grenadier. 

What do you want? 

A pot of beer. 
Where is your money? 

I have none. 

Then grenadier 
Get you gone. 


Tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee 
Resolved to have a battle, 

For tweedle-dum said tweedle-dee 
Had spoiled his nice new rattle. 
Just then flew by a monstrous crow, 
As big as a tar barrel, 

Which frightened both the heroes so, 
They quite forgot their quarrel. 


Rhymes >3 l 

Tom, Tom, the piper’s son, 

Stole a pig and away he run! 

The pig was eat, and Tom was beat, 
And Tom went roaring down the 
street. 


Tom he was the piper’s son, 

He learn’d to play when he was young, 

But the only tune that he could play 

Was, “Over the hills and far away.” 

Now Tom with his pipe made such a 
noise, 

That he pleased both the girls and the 
boys, 

And they stopp’d to hear him play, 

“Over the hills and far away.” 

Tom with his pipe did play with such 
skill, 

That those who heard him could never 
keep still; 

Whenever they heard they began for 
to dance, 

Even pigs on their hind legs would 
after him prance. 

As Dolly was milking her cow one day, 

Tom took out his pipe and began for 
to play; 

So Dolly and the cow danced “The 
Cheshire round, ’ ’ 

Till the pail was broke and the milk 
ran on the ground. 

He met old Dame Trot with a basket 
of eggs, 

He used his pipe and she used her 
legs; 

She danced about till the eggs were 
all broke, 

She began for to fret, but he laughed 
at the joke. 







Poems for Children 


>3 2 

lie saw a cross fellow was beating 
an ass, 

Heavy laden with pots, pans, dishes 
and glass; 

He took out his pipe and played them 
a tune, 

And the jackass’s load was lightened 
full soon. 


Three wise men of Gotham 
Went to sea in a bowl: 

And if the bowl had been stronger, 
My song would have been longer. 


Barber, barber, shave a pig, 

How many hairs will make a wig? 
“Four and twenty, that’s enough.” 
Give the barber a pinch of snuff. 


The barber shaved the mason, 
As I suppose 
Cut off his nose, 

And popp’d it in a bason. 


There was a man of Newington, 

And he was wondrous wise, 

He jump’d into a quickset hedge, 
And scratch’d out both his eyes; 
But when he saw his eyes were out, 
With all his might and main, 

He jump’d into another hedge. 

And scratch’d ’em in again. 


There was a man in our toone, in our 
toone, in our toone, 

There was a man in our toone, and his 
name was Billy Pod. 

And he played upon an old razor, an 
old razor, an old razor, 

And he played upon an old razor, with 
my fiddle fiddle fe fum fo. 

And his hat was made of the good 
roast beef, the good roast beef, 
the good roast beef, 


And his hat was made of the good 
roast beef, and his name was 
Billy Pod. 

And he played upon an old razor, etc. 

And his coat was made of the good fat 
tripe, the good fat tripe, the good 
fat tripe, 

And his coat was made of the good fat 
tripe, and his name was Billy Pod. 

And he played upon an old razor, etc. 

And his breeks were made of the baw- 
bie baps, the bawbie baps, the 
bawbie baps, 

And his breeks were made of the baw¬ 
bie baps, and his name was Billy 
Pod. 

And he played upon an old razor, etc. 

V 

And there was a man in tither toone, 
in tither toone, tither toone, 

And there was a man in tither toone, 
and his name was Edrin Drum. 

And he played upon an old ladle, an 
old ladle, an old ladle, 

And he played upon an old ladle, with 
my fiddle, fiddle, fum fo. 

And he ate up all the good roast beef, 
the good roast beef, etc., etc. 

And he ate up all the good fat tripe, 
the good fat tripe, etc., etc. 

And he ate up all the bawbie baps, etc., 
and his name was Edrin Drum. 


There was a man and he went mad. 
And he jump’d into a biscuit bag; 
The biscuit bag it was so full, 

So he jump’d into a roaring bull; 

The roaring bull it was so fat, 

So he jump’d into a gentleman’s hat; 
The gentleman’s hat it was so fine. 
So he jump’d into a bottle of wine; 
The bottle of wine it was so dear. 

So he jump’d into a barrel of beer; 








Nursery Rhymes 


33 


The barrel of beer it was so thick, 

So he jump’d into a walking-stick; 
The walking-stick it was so narrow, 

So he jump’d Into a wheel-barrow; 
The wheel-barrow began to crack, 

So he jump’d on to a hay-stack; 

The hay-stack began to blaze, 

So he did nothing but cough and 
sneeze! 


Oh where and oh where is my little 
wee dog? 

Oh where and oh where is he ? 

With his ears cut short and his tail 
cut long, 

Oh where and oh where can he be? 


There was a crooked man, and he 
went a crooked mile. 

He found a crooked sixpence against 
a crooked stile: 

He bought a crooked cat, which caught 
a crooked mouse, 

And they all lived together in a little 
crooked house. 


Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a 
thief, 

Taffy came to my house, and stole a 
piece of beef; 

I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy was 
not at home; 

Taffy came to my house, and stole a 
marrow-bone; 

T went to Taffy’s house, Taffy was 
not in; 

Taffy came to my house, and stole a 
silver pin; 

I went to Taffy’s house, Taffy was in 
bed; 

T took up a poker and flung it at his 
head. 


Solomon Grundy, 

Born on a Monday, 
Christened on Tuesday, 
Married on Wednesday, 
Took ill on Thursday, 
Worse on Friday, 

Died on Saturday, 
Buried on Sunday. 

This is the end of 
Solomon Grundy. 


Simple Simon met a pieman 
Going to the fair; 

Says Simple Simon to the pieman, 
“Let me taste your ware.” 

Saj^s the pieman to Simple Simon, 
“Show me first your penny,” 

Says Simple Simon to the pieman, 
“Indeed I have not any.” 

Simple Simon went a-fishing 
For to catch a whale; 

All the water he had got 
Was in his mother’s pail. 


Rowley Powley, pudding and pie, 
Kissed the girls and made them cry; 
When the girls came out to play, 
Rowley Powley ran away. 


Robin Hood, Robin Hood, 
Is in the mickle wood! 
Little John, Little John, 
He to the town is gone. 

Robin Hood, Robin Hood, 
Is telling his beads, 

All in the green wood, 
Among the green weeds. 

Little John, Little John, 
If he comes no more, 
Robin Hood, Robin Hood, 
He will fret full sore! 








Poems for Children 


l 34 

This is the house that Jack built. 

This is the malt that lay in the house 
that Jack built. 

This is the rat that ate the malt, &c. 

This is the cat that killed the rat, &c. 

This is the dog that worried the 
cat, &c. 

This is the cow with the crumpled 
horn 

That tossed the dog, &c. 

This is the maiden all forlorn 

That milk’d the cow with the crum¬ 
pled horn, &c. 

This is the man all tatter’d and torn 

That kiss’d the maiden all forlorn, &c. 

This is the priest all shaven and shorn, 

That married the man all tatter’d and 
torn, &c. 

This is the cock that crowed in the 
morn, 

That waked the priest all shaven and 
shorn, &c. 

This is the farmer sowing his corn, 

That kept the cock that crow’d in the 
morn, 

That waked the priest all shaven and 
shorn, 

That married the man all tatter’d and 
torn, 

That kissed the maiden all forlorn, 

That milk’d the cow with the crum¬ 
pled horn, 

That tossed the dog, 

That worried the cat, 

That kill’d the rat, 

That ate the malt. 

That lay in the house that Jack built. 


Robin and Richard were two pretty 
men; 

They lay in bed till the clock struck 
ten; 

Then up starts Robin and looks at the 
sky; 

Oh! brother Richard, the sun’s very 
high: 

You go on with bottle and bag, 

And I’ll follow after on jolly Jack 
Nag. 


Girls and boys come out to play, 

The moon doth shine as bright as 
day; 

Leave your supper, and leave your 
sleep, 

And come with your playfellows into 
the street. 

Come with a whoop, come with a call, 
Come with a goodwill or not at all. 
LTp the ladder and down the wall, 

A half-penny roll will serve us all. 
You find milk, and I ’ll find flour, 

And we’ll have a pudding in half-an- 
liour. 


Handy Spandy, Jack-a-dandy, 
Loved plum-cake and sugar-candy; 
He bought some at a grocer’s shop, 
And out he came, hop, hop, hop. 


Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, 
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall; 
All the king’s horses and all the king’s 
men 

Cannot put Humpty Dumpty to¬ 
gether again. 


Little Jack Horner sat in the corner 
eating a Christmas pie; 

He put in his thumb, and he took out 
a plum, 

And said, 1 ‘What a good boy am I!” 






Nursery 

There was a little boy and a little girl 
Lived in an alley; 

Says the little boy to the little girl, 
"Shall I, oh! shall If” 

Says the little girl to the little boy, 
"What shall we dor’ 

Says the little boy to the little girl, 

‘ ‘ I will kiss yon. ’ ’ 


Jack Sprat could eat no fat, 

His wife could eat no lean; 

And so betwixt them both, you see, 
They lick’d the platter clean. 


Over the water and over the sea, 

And over the water to Charley. 
Charley loves good ale and wine, 

And Charley loves good brandy, 

And Charley loves a pretty girl, 

As sweet as sugar-candy. 

Over the water and over the sea, 

And over the water to Charley. 

I ’ll have none of your nasty beef, 

Nor I’ll have none of your barley; 
But I’ll have some of your very best 
flour 

To make a white cake for my Charley. 


On Saturday night 
Shall be all my care, 
To powder my locks 
And curl my hair. 

On Sunday morning 
My love will come in. 
When he will marry me 
With a gold ring. 


Rhymes 13J 

Curly locks, curly locks! wilt thou 
be mine? 

Thou shalt not wash dishes, nor yet 
feed the swine; 

But sit on a cushion, and sew a fine 
seam, 

And feed upon strawberries, sugar, 
and cream! 


I had a little husband 

No bigger than my thumb; 

I put him in a pint pot, 

And there I bid him drum. 

I bought him a little horse, 
That galloped up and down. 

I bridled him and saddled him, 
And sent him out of town. 

I gave him some garters, 

To garter up his hose, 

And a little handkerchief, 

To wipe his pretty nose. 


Jack and Jill went up the hill, 

To fetch a pail of water; 

Jack fell down and broke his crown 
And Jill came tumbling after. 

Up Jack got and home did trot 
As fast as he could caper, 

Dame Jill had the job, to plaister his 
knob, 

With vinegar and brown paper. 


Gay go up, and gay go down 
To ring the bells of London town. 

Bulls’ eyes and targets, 

Say the bells of St. Marg’ret’s. 

Brickbats and tiles, 

Say the bells of St. Giles’s. 

Halfpence and farthings, 

Say the bells of St. Martin’s. 








Poems for Children 


136 

Oranges and lemons, 

Say the bells of St. Clement ’s. 

Pancakes and fritters, 

Say the bells of St. Peter’s. 

Two sticks and an apple, 

Say the bells of Whitechapel. 

Old Father Baldpate, 

Say the slow bells at Aldgate. 

You owe me ten shillings, 

Say the bells of St. Helen’s. 

Pokers and tongs, 

Say the bells at St. John’s. 

Kettles and pans, 

Say the bells at St. Ann’s. 

When will you pay me? 

Say the bells at Old Bailey. 

When I grow rich, 

Say the bells at Shoreditch. 

Pray when will that be? 

Say the bells at Stepney. 

I’m sure I don’t know, 

Says the great bell at Bow. 

Here comes a candle to light you to 
bed, 

And here comes a chopper to chop off 
your head. 


London bridge is broken down, 
Dance o’er my lady lee; 
London bridge is broken down, 
With a gay lady. 

How shall we build it up again? 

Dance o’er my lady lee; 

How shall we build it up again? 
With a gay lady. 


Silver and gold will be stole away, 
Dance o ’er my lady lee; 

Silver and gold will be stole away, 
With a gay lady. 

Build it up again with iron and steel, 
Dance o’er my lady lee; 

Build it up with iron and steel, 

With a gay lady. 

Iron and steel will bend and bow, 
Dance o’er my lady lee; 

Iron and steel will bend and bow, 
With a gay lady. 

Build it up with wood and clay, 
Dance o’er my lady lee; 

Build it up with wood and clay, 

With a gay lady. 

Wood and clay will wash away, 
Dance o’er my lady lee; 

Wood and clay will wash away, 

With a gay lady. 

Build it up with stone so strong, 
Dance 0 ’er my lady lee; 

Huzza! ’twill last for ages long, 

With a gay lady. 


Come, let’s to bed, 

Says Sleepy-head, 

Tarry a while, says Slow, 

Put on the pan, says Greedy Nan, 
Let’s sup before we go. 


Matthew, Mark, Luke and John, 
Guard the bed that I lay on! 
Four corners to my bed, 

Four angels round my head— 
One to watch, one to pray, 

And two to bear my soul away. 






© G. W. J. & CO. 

He put her in a pumpkin shell 
And there he kept her very ivell 

PETER, PETER, PUMPKIN EATER 





















































































■ 









































, 






1 1 ■ . I ' ■ I I 



































■ 












♦ 













Nursery Rhymes 


Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater, 

Had a wife and couldn’t keep her; 
He put her in a pumpkin shell 
And there he kept her very well. 


Rub-a-dub-dub, 

Three men in a tub, 

And who do you think they be? 
The butcher, the baker, 

The candlestick-maker; 
Turn ’em out, knaves all three! 


Hickory, dickory, dock, 

The mouse ran up the clock; 
The clock struck one, 

The mouse ran down, 
Hickory, dickory, dock. 


A dillar, a dollar, 

A ten o’clock scholar, 

What makes you come so soon ? 
You used to come at ten o’clock 
But now you come at noon. 


Hector Protector was dressed all in 
green; 

Hector Protector was sent to the 
Queen. 

The Queen did not like him, no more 
did the King; 

So Hector Protector was sent back 
again. 


Blow, wind, blow! and go, mill, go! 

That the miller may grind his corn ; 
That the baker may take it and into 
rolls make it, 

And send us some hot in the morn. 


Six little mice sat down to spin. 
Pussy passed by, and she peeped in. 
“What are you at, my little men?” 
“Making coats for gentlemen.” 


J 37 

“Shall I come in and bite oil' your 
threads ? ’ ’ 

“No, no, Miss Pussy, you’ll snip off 
our heads.” 

“Oh, no, I’ll not, I’ll help you to 
spin. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ That may be so, but you don’t come 


Bobby Shaftoe’s gone to sea, 

Silver buckles at his knee; 

When he comes back, he’ll marry me, 
Bonny Bobby Shaftoe. 

Bobby Shaftoe’s fat and fair, 
Combing down his yellow hair; 

He’s my love for evermair, 

Bonny Bobby Shaftoe. 


The Queen of Hearts 
She made some tarts, 

All on a summer’s day; 

The Knave of Hearts 
He stole those tarts, 

And with them ran away. 

The King of Hearts 
Called for the tarts. 

And beat the Knave full sore; 
The Knave of Hearts 
Brought back the tarts, 
And vowed he’d steal no more! 


MARY’S LAMB. 

Mary had a little lamb, 

Its fleece was white as snow; 

And everywhere that Mary went, 
The lamb was sure to go. 

He followed her to school one day, 
Which was against the rule; 

It made the children laugh and play 
To sec a lamb at school. 










Poems for Children 


*3 8 

And so the teacher turned him out, 
But still he lingered near, 

And waited patiently about 
Till Mary did appear. 

Then he ran to her, and laid 
His head upon her arm, 

As if he said, “I’m not afraid— 
You’ll keep me from all harm.” 

“What makes the lamb love Mary 
so?” 

The eager children cried. 

“Oh, Mary loves the lamb, you know, ’ ’ 
The teacher quick replied. 

And you each gentle animal 
In confidence may bind, 

And make them follow at your will, 
If you are only kind. 


WHEN I WAS A BACHELOR. 

When I was a bachelor 
I lived by myself; 

And all the bread and cheese I got 
I put upon the shelf. 

The rats and the mice 
They made such a strife, 

I was forced to go to London 
To buy me a wife. 

The streets were so bad, 

And the lanes were so narrow, 

I was forced to bring my wife home 
In a wheelbarrow. 

The wheelbarrow broke, 

And my wife had a fall, 

Down came wheelbarrow, 

Little wife and all. 


ROBIN REDBREAST. 

Little Robin Redbreast sat upon a 
tree, 

Up went pussy-cat, and down went 
he; 

Down came pussy-cat, and away 
Robin ran; 

Said little Robin Redbreast, “Catch 
me if you can.” 

Little Robin Redbreast jumped upon 
a wall, 

Pussy-cat jumped after him, and al¬ 
most got a fall; 

Little Robin chirped and sang, and 
what did pussy say? 

Pussy-cat said naught but “Mew,” 
and Robin flew away. 

MERRY ARE THE BELLS. 

Merry are the bells, and merry would 
they ring, 

Merry was myself, and merry could I 
sing; 

With a merry ding-dong, happy, gay, 
and free, 

And a merry sing-song, happy let us 
be! 

Waddle goes your gait, and hollow are 
your hose: 

Noddle goes your pate, and purple is 
your nose: 

Merry is your sing-song, happy, ga} T , 
and free; 

With a merry ding-dong, happy let 
us be! 

Merry have we met, and merry have 
we been; 

Merry let us part, and merry meet 
again; 

With our merry sing-song, happy, 
gay, and free; 

With a merry ding-dong, happy let 
us be! 


Nursery Rhymes 


I HAD A LITTLE DOGGY. 

I had a little Doggy that used to sit 
and beg; 

But Doggy tumbled down the stairs 
and broke his little leg. 

Oh! Doggy, I will nurse you, and try 
to make you well, 

And you shall have a collar with a 
little silver bell. 


Ah! Doggy, don’t you think that you 
should very faithful be, 

For having such a loving friend to 
comfort you as me? 

And when your leg is better, and you 
can run and play, 

AVe’ll have a scamper in the fields and 
see them making hay. 

But, Doggy, you must promise (and 
mind your word you keep) 

Not once to tease the little lambs, or 
run among the sheep; 

And then the little yellow chicks that 
play upon the grass, 

You must not even wag your tail to 
scare them as you pass. 

A FARMER WENT TROTTING. 

A farmer went trotting upon his gray 
mare; 

Bumpety, bumpety, bump! 

With his daughter behind him, so rosy 
and fair; 

Lumpety, lumpcty, lump! 

A raven cried croak! and they all 
tumbled down; 

Bumpety, bumpety, bump! 

The mare broke her knees, and the 
farmer his crown; 

Lumpety, lumpety, lump! 


»39 

The mischievous raven flew laughing 
away; 

Bumpety, bumpety, bump! 

And vowed he would serve them the 
same the next day ; 

Lumpety, lumpety, lump! 


MOON, SO ROUND AND YELLOW. 

Moon, so round and yellow, 
Looking from on high, 

How I love to see you 
Shining in the sky. 

Oft and oft I wonder, 

When I see you there, 

How they get to light you, 
Hanging in the air: 

Where you go at morning, 

When the night is past, 

And the sun comes peeping 
O’er the hills at last. 

Sometime I will watch you 
Slyly overhead, 

When you think I’m sleeping 
Snugly in my bed. 

Matthias Barr. 


BABY AT PLAY. 

Brow bender, Eye peeper, 
Nose smeller, Mouth eater, 
Chin chopper, 

Knock at the door—peep in, 
Lift up the latch—walk in. 


Here sits the Lord Mayor, here sits 
his two men; 

Here sits the cock, and here sits the 
hen; 

Here sits the chickens, and here they 
go in, 

Chippety, chippety, chippety, chin. 



140 


Poems for Children 


GRAMMAR IN RHYME. 

Three little words, you often see, 

Are articles A, A11, and The. 

A Noun is the name of anything, 

As School, or Garden, Hoop, or Swing. 
Adjectives tell the kind of Noun, 

As Great, Small, Pretty, White, or 
Brown. 

Instead of Nouns the Pronouns stand, 
Her head, His face, Your arm, My 
hand. 

Verbs tell of something being done— 
To Read, Count, Laugh, Sing, Jump, 
or Run. 

How things are done the Adverbs tell, 
As Slowly, Quickly, Ill, or Well. 
Conjunctions join the words to¬ 
gether— 

As men And women, wind And 
weather. 

The Preposition stands before 
A noun, as In or Through a door, 

The Interjection shows surprise, 

As Oh! how pretty! Ah! how wise! 
The Whole are called nine parts of 
speech, 

Which reading, writing, speaking 
teach. 


A PLUM PUDDING. 

Flour of England, fruit of Spain, 
Met together in a shower of rain; 
Put in a bag tied round with a string, 
If you’ll tell me this riddle, I’ll give 
you a ring. 


AN EGG. 

In marble walls as white as milk, 
Lined with a skin as soft as silk, 
Within a fountain crystal clear, 

A golden apple doth appear. 

No doors there are to this stronghold, 
Yet thieves break in and steal the 
gold. 


A PAIR OF TONGS. 

Long legs, crooked thighs, 
Little head and no eyes. 

THE TEETH. 

Thirty white horses upon a red hill, 
Now they tramp, now they champ, 
now they stand still. 

A BED. 

Formed long ago, yet made to-day, 
Employed while others sleep; 
What few would like to give away, 
Nor any wish to keep. 


Elizabeth, Lizzy, Betsy and Bess, 
All went together to seek a bird’s 
nest; 

They found a nest with five eggs in it; 
They each took one and left four in it. 


Thomas a Tattamus took two T’s, 
To tie two tups to two tall trees, 

To frighten the terrible Thomas a 
Tattamus! 

Tell me how many T’s there are in all 
THAT! 

A NEEDLE AND THREAD. 

Old Mother Twitchett had but one 
eye, 

And a long tail which she let fly; 

And every time she went over a gap, 
She left a bit of her tail in a trap. 

A CHERRY. 

As I went through a garden gap, 

Who should I meet but Dick Red-Cap! 
A stick in his hand, a stone in his 
throat, 

If you’ll tell me this riddle, I’ll give 
you a groat. 




Nursery Rhymes 


AS I WAS GOING TO ST. IVES. 

As I was was going to St. Ives, 

I met a man with seven wives; 
Every wife had seven sacks, 

Every sack had seven cats, 

Every cat had seven kits— 

Kits, cats, sacks, and wives, 

How many were going to St. Ives? 

(One.) 


TWO LEGS SAT UPON THREE 
LEGS. 

Two legs sat upon three legs, 
With one leg in his lap; 

In comes four legs 

And runs away with one leg; 

Up jumps two legs, 

Catches up three legs, 

Throws it after four legs, 

And makes him drop one leg. 

(A man, a stool, a leg of mutton, and 
a dog.) 


If wishes were horses, 
Beggars would ride; 

If turnips were watches, 
I’d wear one by my side. 


He that would thrive 
Must rise at five; 

He that hath thriven 
May lie till seven; 

And he that by the plough would 
thrive, 

Himself must either hold or drive. 


141 

They that wash on Monday 
Have all the week to dry; 

They that wash on Tuesday, 

Are not so much awry; 

They that wash on Wednesday 
Are not so much to blame; 

They that wash on Thursday, 
Wash for shame; 

They that wash on Friday, 

Wash in need; 

And they that wash on Saturday, 
Oh, they are slovens, indeed. 


Needles and pins, needles and pins, 
When a man marries, his trouble 
begins. 


For every evil under the sun. 
There is a remedy, or there is none. 
If there be one, try and find it; 

If there be none, never mind it. 


For want of a nail, the shoe was lost; 

For want of the shoe, the horse was 
lost; 

For want of the horse, the rider was 
lost; 

For want of the rider, the battle was 
lost; 

For want of the battle, the kingdom 
was lost; 

And all from the want of a horseshoe 
nail. 


A sunshiny shower 
Won’t last half an hour. 


Rain before seven, 
Fair by eleven. 


A swarm of bees in May 
Is worth a load of hay; 
A swarm of bees in June 
Is worth a silver spoon; 
A swarm of bees in July 
Is not worth a fly. 


March winds and April showers 
Bring forth May flowers. 











142 


Poems for Children 


Evening red and morning gray 
Set the traveller on his way; 

But evening gray and morning red, 
Bring the rain upon his head. 


Rainbow at night 
Is the sailor’s delight; 
Rainbow at morning, 
Sailors, take warning. 


See-saw saeradown, 

Which is the way to London town? 
One foot up, the other foot down, 
That is the way to London town. 


Dance, little baby, dance up high, 

Never mind, baby, mother is by; 

Crow and caper, caper and crow, 

There, little baby, there you go; 

Up to the ceiling, down to the ground, 

Backwards and forwards, round and 
round; 

Dance, little baby, and mother will 
sing, 

With the merry chorus, ding, ding, 
ding! 


Hey diddle, dinkety, poppetv, pet, 
The merchants of London they wear 
scarlet; 

Silk in the collar and gold in the hem, 
So merrily march the merchantmen. 


There was a little nobby colt, 

His name was Nobby Gray; 

His head was made of pouce straw, 
His tail was made of hay. 

He could ramble, he could trot, 
He could carry a mustard-pot 
Round the town of Woodstock, 
Hey, Jenny, hey! 


Pussy sits beside the fire— 

How can she be fair? 

In comes little puppy-dog: 

“Pussy, are you there? 

So, so, Mistress Pussy, 

Pray how do you do?” 

“Thank you, thank you, little dog,. 
I’m very well just now.” 


JACK HORNER. 

Jack Horner was a pretty lad, 

Near London he did dwell; 

His father’s heart he made full glad, 
His mother loved him well. 

While little Jack was sweet and 
young, 

If he by chance should cry, 

His mother pretty sonnets sung, 

With a lul-la-lul-la-by, 

With such a dainty curious tone, 

As Jack sat on her knee, 

That soon, ere he could go alone, 

He sang as well as she. 

A pretty boy of curious wit, 

All people spoke his praise, 

And in the corner he would sit 
In Christmas holidays. 

When friends they did together meet, 
To pass away the time— 

Why, little Jack, be sure, would eat 
His Christmas pie in rhyme. 

He said, “Jack Horner, in the corner, 
Eats good Christmas pie, 

And with his thumbs pulls out the 
plums, 

And says, ‘ Good boy ami!”’ 







Nursery Rhymes 


Come hither, little puppy-dog, 

I’ll give you a new collar, 

If you will learn to read your book, 
And be a clever scholar.” 

“No! no!” replied the puppy-dog, 
“I’ve other fish to fry; 

For I must learn to guard your house, 
And bark when thieves come nigh.” 

AVith a tingle, tangle titmouse, 
Robin knows great A, 

And B, and C, and D, and E, 

F, G, II, I, J, IC. 

“Come hither, pretty cockatoo, 
Come and learn your letters; 

And you shall have a knife and fork 
To eat with, like your betters.” 

“No! no!” the cockatoo replied, 

“My beak will do as well; 

I’d rather eat my victuals thus 
Than go and learn to spell.” 

With a tingle, tangle titmouse, 
Robin knows great A, 

And B, and C, and D, and E, 

F, G, II, I, J, K. 

“Come hither, little pussy-cat, 

If you’ll your grammar study, 

I’ll give you silver clogs to wear, 
Whene’er the gutter’s muddy.” 

“No! whilst I grammar learn,” says 
puss, 

“Your house will in a trice 

Be overrun from top to toe, 

With flocks of rats and mice.” 

With a tingle, tangle titmouse, 
Robin knows great A, 

And B, and C, and D, and E, 

F, G, H, I, J, K. 

“Come hither, then, good little boy, 
And learn your alphabet, 

And you a pair of boots and spurs, 
Like your papa’s, shall get.” 


M 3 

Peter White will ne’er go right: 

Would you know the reason why? 
He follows his nose where’er he goes, 
And that stands all awry. 


The man in the moon 
Came down too soon, 

And asked his way to Norwich: 
He went by the south, 

And burnt his mouth 
With eating cold plum-porridge. 


Brave news is come to town; 

Brave news is carried; 
Brave news is come to town— 
Jemmy Dawson’s married. 

First he got a porridge-pot, 
Then he bought a ladle; 
Then he got a wife and child, 
And then he bought a cradle. 


There was an old man, 

And he had a calf, 

And that’s half; 

He took him out of the stall, 
And tied him to the wall, 
And that’s all. 


There was a chandler making candle, 

When he them stript, he did them 
handle. 

There was an old woman lived under 
a hill, 

And if she’s not gone, she lives there 
still. 

TREE ON THE HILL. 

On yonder hill there stands a tree; 

Tree on the hill, and the hill stood 
still. 






>44 


Poems for Children 


And on the tree there was a branch; 

Branch on the tree, tree on the hill, 
and the hill stood still. 

And on the branch there was a nest; 

Nest on the branch, branch on the 
tree, tree on the hill, and the hill 
stood still. 

And in the nest there was an egg; 

Egg in the nest, nest on the branch, 
branch on the tree, tree on the 
hill, and the hill stood still. 

And in the egg there was a bird; 

Bird in the egg, egg in the nest, nest 
on the branch, branch on the tree, 
tree on the hill, and the hill stood 
still. 

And on the bird there was a feather; 

Feather on the bird, bird in the egg, 
egg in the nest, nest on the 
branch, branch on the tree, tree 
on the hill, and the hill stood still. 


When the wind is in the east, 

Tis good for neither man nor beast; 
When the wind is in the north, 

The skillful fisher goes not forth; 
When the wind is in the south, 

It blows the bait in the fishes’ mouth; 
When the wind is in the west, 

Then ’tis at the very best. 


HEARTS, LIKE DOORS. 

Hearts, like doors, will ope with ease 
To very, very little keys, 

And don’t forget that two of these 
Are “I thank you” and 4 ‘If you 
please. ’ ’ 


COUNTING OUT. 

Intery, mintery, cutery-corn, 
Apple seed and apple thorn; 
Wire, brier, limber-lock, 

Five geese in a flock, 

Sit and sing by a spring, 
O-u-t, and in again. 


A TEA-PARTY. 

You see, merry Phillis, that dear little 
maid, 

Has invited Belinda to tea; 

Her nice little garden is shaded by 
trees,— 

What pleasanter place could there 
be? 

There’s a cake full of plums, there are 
strawberries too. 

And the table is set on the green; 
I’m fond of a carpet all daisies and 
grass,— 

Could a prettier picture be seen? 

A blackbird (yes, blackbirds delight 
in warm weather), 

Is flitting from yonder high spray; 
He sees the two little ones talking to¬ 
gether,— 

No wonder the blackbird is gay. 

Kate Greenaway. 

AROUND THE WORLD. 

In go-cart so tiny 
My sister I drew; 

And I’ve promised to draw her 
The wide world through. 

We have not yet started— 

I own it with sorrow— 

Because our trip’s always 
Put off till to-morrow. 

Kate Greenaway. 



Nursery Rhymes 


A HAPPY CHILD. 

My house is red—a little house, 

A happy child am I, 

I laugh and play the livelong day, 

1 hardly ever cry. 

I have a tree, a green, green tree, 

To shade me from the sun; 

And under it I often sit, 

When all my work is done. 

My little basket I will take, 

And trip into the town; 

When next I’m there I’ll buy some 
cake, 

And spend my bright half-crown. 

Kate Greenaway. 


A 4 f 

THE LAMB. 

Now, Lamb, no longer naughty be, 

Be good and homewards come with 
me, 

Or else upon another daj r 

You shall not with the daisies play. 

Did we not bring you, for a treat, 

In the green grass to frisk your feet ? 
And when we must go home again 
You pull your ribbon and complain. 

So, little Lamb, be good once more, 
And give your naughty tempers o’er. 
Then you again shall dine and sup 
On daisy white and buttercup. 

Kate Greenaway . 


IV 


Fairy Land 


THE FAIRIES. 

Up the airy mountain, 

Down the rushy glen, 

We daren’t go a-hunting, 

For fear of little men; 

Wee folk, good folk, 

Trooping all together; 

Green jacket, red cap, 

And white owl’s feather! 

Down along the rocky shore 
Some make their home, 

They live on crispy pancakes 
Of yellow tide-foam; 

Some in the reeds 

Of the black mountain-lake, 

With frogs for their watch-dogs, 
All night awake. 

High on the hill-top 
The old King sits; 

He is now so old and gray, 

He’s nigh lost his wits. 

With a bridge of white mist 
Columbkill he crosses, 

On his stately journeys 
From Slieveleague to Rosses; 

Or going up with music 
On cold starry nights, 

To sup with the Queen 

Of the gay Northern Lights. 

They stole little Bridget 
For seven years long; 

When she came down again, 

Her friends were all gone. 


They took her lightly back, 

Between the night and morrow, 
They thought that she was fast asleep, 
But she was dead with sorrow. 
They have kept her ever since 
Deep within the lake, 

On a bed of flag-leaves, 

Watching till she wake. 

By the craggy hill-side, 

Through the mosses bare, 

They have planted thorn-trees 
For pleasure here and there. 

Is any man so daring 
As dig them up in spite, 

He shall find their sharpest thorns 
In his bed at night. 

Up the airy mountain, 

Down the rushy glen, 

We daren’t go a-hunting, 

For fear of little men; 

Wee folk, good folk, 

Trooping all together; 

Green jacket, red cap, 

And white owl’s feather! 

William Allingham. 


THE LIGHT-HEARTED FAIRY. 

On, who is so merry, so merry, heigh 
ho! 

As the light-hearted fairy? heigh ho, 
Heigh ho! 

He dances and sings 
To the sound of his wings 
With a hey and a heigh and a ho! 


•47 


Fairy Land 


Oh, who is so merry, so airy, heigh ho! 
As the light-headed fairy? heigh ho, 
Heigh ho! 

His nectar he sips 
From the primroses ’ lips 
With a liey and a heigh and a ho! 

Oh, who is so merry, so merry, heigh 
ho! 

As the light-footed fairy? heigh ho! 
Heigh ho! 

The night is his noon 
And his sun is the moon, 

With a hey and a heigh and a ho! 

Unknown . 

FAIRY LAND. 

Dim vales, and shadowy floods, 

And cloudy-looking woods; 

Whose forms w r e can’t discover 
For the tears that drip all over; 

Huge moons there wax and wane— 
Again, again, again— 

Eveiy moment of the night, 

For ever changing places; 

And they put out the star-light 
With the breath from their pale faces. 
About twelve by the moon-dial, 

One more filmy than the rest 
(A kind which, upon trial, 

They have found to be the best) 
Comes down—still down—and down 
With its centre on the crown 
Of a mountain’s eminence 
In easy drapery falls 
Over hamlets, over halls, 

Wherever they may be— 

O’er the strange woods, o’er the sea, 
Over spirits on the wing, 

Over every drowsy thing— 

And buries them up quite 
In a labyrinth of light; 

And then, how deep !—0 deep, 

Is the passion of their sleep! 

In the morning they arise, 

And their moony covering 


Is roaring in the skies, 

With the tempest as they toss, 

Like—almost anything, 

Or a yellow albatross. 

They use that moon no more 
For the same end as before— 
Videlicet a tent— 

Which I think extravagant: 

Its atomies however, 

Into a shower dissever 
Of which those butterflies 
Of earth who seek the skies, 

And so come down again 
(Never contented things!), 

Have brought a specimen 
Upon their quivering wings. 

Edgar Allan Poe. 


A FAIRY IN ARMOR. 

He put his acorn helmet on; 

It was plumed of the silk of the 
thistle down; 

The corslet plate that guarded his 
breast 

Was once the wild bee’s golden vest; 

His cloak, of a thousand mingled 
dyes, 

Was formed of the wings of butter¬ 
flies; 

His shield was the shell of a lady-bug 
green, 

Studs of gold on a ground of green; 

And the quivering lance which he 
brandished bright, 

Was the sting of a wasp he had slain 
in fight. 

Swift he bestrode his fire-fly steed; 
He bared his blade of the bent-grass 
blue; 

He drove his spurs of the coekle-seed, 
And away like a glance of thought 
he flew, 

To skim the heavens, and follow far 

The fiery trail of the rocket-star. 

Joseph Rodman Drake . 


Poems for Children 


148 

THE LIFE OF A FAIRY. 

Come follow, follow me, 

You fairy elves that be, 

Which circle on the green; 

Come, follow Mab your queen: 

Hand in hand, let’s dance around, 
For this place is fairy ground. 

Upon a mushroom’s head 
Our table-cloth we spread; 

A grain of rye or wheat, 

Is manchet, which we eat; 

Pearly drops of dew we drink 
In acorn-cups fill’d to the brink. 

The grasshopper, gnat, and fly 
Serve for our minstrelsy; 

Grace said, we dance a while, 

And so the time beguile; 

And if the moon doth hide her head, 
The glow-worm lights us home to bed. 

On the tops of dewy grass 
So nimbly do we pass, 

The young and tender stalk 
Ne’er bends when we do walk; 

Yet in the morning may be seen 
Where we the night before have been. 


“OH! WHERE DO FAIRIES HIDE 
THEIR HEADS? ” 

Oh ! where do fairies hide their heads, 
When snow lies on the hills, 

When frost has spoiled their mossy 
beds, 

And crystallized their rills? 
Beneath the moon they cannot trip 
In circles o ’er the plain; 

And draughts of dew they cannot sip. 
Till green leaves come again. 

Perhaps, in small, blue diving-bells 
They plunge beneath the waves, 
Inhabiting the wreathed shells 
That lie in coral caves. 


Perhaps, in red Vesuvius 
Carousals they maintain; 

And cheer their little spirits thus, 
Till green leaves come again. 

When they return, there will be mirth 
And music in the air, 

And fairy wings upon the earth, 

And mischief everywhere. 

The maids, to keep the elves aloof, 
Will bar the doors in vain; 

No keyhole will be fairy-proof, 

When green leaves come again. 

Thomas Haynes Bayly. 


THE FOUNTAIN OF THE FAIRIES. 

There is a fountain in the forest 
called 

The Fountain of the Fairies: when a 
child 

What a delight of wonder I have 
heard 

Tales of the elfin tribe who on its 
banks 

Hold midnight revelry. An ancient 
oak, 

The goodliest of the forest, grows be¬ 
side ; 

Alone it stands, upon a green grass 
plat, 

By the woods bounded like some little 
isle. 

It ever hath been deem’d their fa¬ 
vourite tree, 

They love to lie and rock upon its 
leaves 

And bask in moonshine. Here the 
woodman leads 

His boy, and showing him the green 
sward mark’d 

With darker circlets, says the mid¬ 
night dance 

Hath traced the rings, and bids him 
spare the tree. 

Fancy had cast a spell upon the place 


'49 


Fairy Land 


Which made it holy; and the villagers 
Would say that never evil things 
approached 

Unpunished there. The strange and 
fearful pleasure 

Which filled me by that solitary 
spring, 

Ceased not in riper years; and now 
it wakes 

Deeper delight, and more mysterious 
awe. 

Robert Southey. 

FAIRY SONG. 

Shed no tear! 0, shed no tear! 

The flower will bloom another year. 
Weep no more! 0, weep no more! 
Young buds sleep in the root’s white 
core. 

Dry your eyes! Oh! dry your eyes! 
For I was taught in Paradise 
To ease my breast of melodies— 

Shed no tear. 

Overhead! look overhead! 

’Mong the blossoms white and red— 
Look up, look up. I flutter now 
On this flush pomegranate bough. 

See me! ’tis this silvery bell 
Ever cures the good man’s ill. 

Shed no tear! O, shed no tear! 

The flowers will bloom another year. 
Adieu, adieu—I fly, adieu, 

I vanish in the heaven’s blue— 

Adieu, adieu! 

John Keats. 

BY THE MOON WE SPORT AND 

PLAY. 

By the moon we sport and play, 
With the night begins our day; 

As we dance the dew doth fall; 

Trip it, little urchins all! 

Two by two, and three by three, 
And about go we, and about go we! 

John Lyly. 


THE MOUNTAIN SPRITE. 

In yonder valley there dwelt, alone, 
A youth whose moments had calmly 
flown, 

Till spells o’er him, and, day and 
night, 

lie was haunted and watched by a 
Mountain Sprite! 

As once by moonlight he wandered 
o ’er 

The golden sands of that island shore, 
A foot-print sparkled before his 
sight— 

Twas the fairy foot of the Mountain 
Sprite! 

Beside a fountain, one sunny day, 

As bending over the stream he lay, 
There peep’d down o’er him two eyes 
of light, 

And lie saw in that mirror the Moun¬ 
tain Sprite. 

He turned, but lo, like a startled bird, 
That spirit fled! and the youth but 
heard 

Sweet music, such as marks the flight 
Of some bird of song, from the Moun¬ 
tain Sprite. 

One night, still haunted by that bright 

look, 

The boy, bewildered, his pencil took; 
And, guided only by memory’s light, 
Drew the once seen form of the Moun¬ 
tain Sprite. 

“Oh thou, who lovest the shadow,” 
cried 

A voice, low whispering by his side, 
“Now turn and see,” — here the 
youth’s delight 

Seal’d the rosy lips of the Mountain 
Sprite. 


iyo 


Poems for Children 


“Of all the spirits of land and sea,” 
Then rapt he murmured, “there’s 
none like thee, 

And oft, oh oft, may thy foot thus 
light 

In this lonely bower, sweet Mountain 
Sprite!’ ’ 

Thomas Moore. 

A CHARM. 

In the morning when you rise 
Wash your hands and cleanse your 
eyes; 

Next, be sure ye have a care 
To disperse the water far; 

For as far as it doth light, 

So far keeps the evil sprite. 

Robert Herrick. 

ANOTHER CHARM. 

If ye fear to be benighted, 

When ye are by chance benighted, 
In your pocket for a trust, 

Carry nothing but a crust; 

For that holy piece of bread 
Charms the danger and the dread. 

Robert Herrick. 

QUEEN MAB. 

This is Mab, the mistress Fairy, 

That doth nightly rob the dairy, 

And can help or hurt the churning, 
As she please without discerning. 

She that pinches country wenches 
If they rub not clean their benches, 
And with sharper nails remembers 
When they rake not up their embers: 
But if so they chance to feast her, 

In a shoe she drops a tester. 

This is she that empties cradles, 

Takes out children, puts in ladles; 
Trains forth old wives in their slum¬ 
ber 


With a sieve the holes to number; 

And then leads them from her bur« 
rows, 

Home through ponds and water- 
furrows. 

She can start our Franklin’s daugh¬ 
ters, 

In their sleep, with shrieks and laugh¬ 
ter; 

And on sweet St. Anna’s night 

Feed them with a promised sight, 

Some of husbands, some of lovers, 

Which an empty dream discovers. 

Ben Jonson. 


QUEEN MAB. 

Oh then, I see, Queen Mab hath been 
with you. 

She is the fairies’ midwife, and she 
comes 

In shape no bigger than an agate 
stone 

On the fore-finger of an alderman; 

Drawn with a team of little atomies 

Athwart men’s noses as they lie 
asleep: 

Her wagon spokes made of long 
spinner’s legs: 

The cover, of the wings of grasshop¬ 
pers ; 

The traces, of the smallest spider’s 
web; 

The collars of the moonshine’s watery 
beams; 

Her whip of cricket’s bone, the lash, 
of film; 

Her wagoner, a small gre} r -coated 
gnat, 

Not half so big as a round little worm, 

Pricked from the lazy finger of a 
maid: 

Her chariot is an empty hazel nut, 

Made by the joiner squirrel, or old 
grub, 


Time out of mind the fairies’ coach- 
makers, 

And in this state she gallops night by 
night, 

Through lovers’ brains, and then they 
dream of love; 

On courtier’s knees that dream on 
court ’sies straight; 

O’er lawyers’ fingers, who straight 
dream on fees; 

O’er ladies’ lips, who straight on 
kisses dream. 

William Shakespeare. 


QUEEN MAB’S CHARIOT. 

Her chariot ready straight is made, 
Each thing therein is fitting laid, 
That she by nothing might be stayed, 
For naught must be her letting. 
Four nimble gnats the horses were 
Their harnesses of gossamer, 

Fly, Cranion, her charioteer, 

Upon the coach-box getting. 

Her chariot of a snail’s fine shell, 
Which for the colours did excel, 

The fair queen Mab becoming well— 
So lively was the limning; 

The seat the soft wool of the bee, 

The cover (gallantly to see) 

The wing of a pied butterflee: 

I trow, ’twas simple trimming. 

The wheels composed of crickets y 
bones, 

And daintily made for the nonce. 

For fear of rattling on the stones, 
With thistle-down they shot it; 
For all her maidens much did fear, 

If Oberon had chanced to hear 
That Mab his queen should have been 
there, 

He would not have abode it. 


Land 151 

She mounts her chariot with a trice, 
Nor would she stay for no advice, 
Until her maids that were so nice 
To wait on her were fitted, 

But ran herself away alone; 

Which when they heard, there was 
not one 

But hastened after to be gone, 

As she had been diswitted. 

Hop, and Mop, and Drap so clear, 
Pip, and Trip, and Skip, that were 
To Mab their sovereign dear, 

Her special maids of honour; 

Fib, and Tib, and Pink, and Pin, 
Pick, and Quick, and Jill, and Jin, 
Tit, and Nit, and Wap, and Wim— 
The train that wait upon her. 

Upon a grasshopper they got, 

And what with amble and with trot, 
For hedge nor ditch they spared not, 
But after her they hie them. 

A cobweb over them they throw, 

To shield the wind if it should blow; 
Themselves they wisely could bestow 
Lest any should espy them. 

Michael Drayton. 

THE BEGGAR, TO MAB THE 
FAIRY QUEEN. 

Please your grace, from out your 
store, 

Give an alms to one that’s poor, 
That your mickle may have more. 
Black I’ve grown for want of meat, 
Give me then an ant to eat, 

Or the cleft ear of a mouse 
Over sour’d in drink of souse; 

Or, sweet lady, reach to me 
The abdomen of a bee; 

Or commend a cricket’s hip, 

Or his huckson, to my scrip; 

Give for bread a little bit 
Of a piece that ’gins to chit, 

And my full thanks take for it. 


I 52 


Poems lor Children 


Flour of fuz-balls, that’s too good 
For a man in needy-hood; 

But the meal of mill-dust can 
Well content a craving man; 

Any oats the elves refuse 
Well will serve the beggar’s use. 
But if this may seem too much 
For an alms, then give me such 
Little bits that nestle there 
In the pris’ner’s pannier. 

So a blessing light upon 
You and mighty Oberon; 

That your plenty last till when 
I return your alms again. 

Robert Herrick. 

YOU SPOTTED SNAKES. 

First Fairy. 

You spotted snakes with double 
tongues, 

Thorny hedge-hogs, be not seen; 
Newts and blind-worms, do no wrong; 
Come not near our fairy queen. 

Chorus: 

Philomel, with melody, 

Sing in our sweet lullaby; 

Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lul¬ 
laby; 

Never harm, nor spell nor charm, 
Come our lovely lady nigh; 

So good-night, with lullaby. 

Second Fairy. 

Weaving spiders, come not here ; 
Hence yon long-legg’d spinners, 
hence 

Beetles black, approach not near, 
Worm, nor snail, do no offence. 

Chorus: 

Philomel, with melody, etc. 


First Fairy. 

Hence away; now all is well: 

One, aloof, stand sentinel. 

William Shakespeare. 

OBERON’S FEAST. 

A little mushroom-table spread, 
After short prayers they set on bread, 
A moon-parch’d grain of purest wheat 
With some small glitt’ring grit, to eat 
His* choice bits with; then in a trice 
They make a feast less great than nice. 
But all this while his eyes is serv’d 
We must not think his ear was 
starv’d; 

But that there was in place to stir 
His spleen, the chirping grasshopper, 
The merry cricket, puling fly, 

The piping gnat for minstrelsy. 

And now, we must imagine first, 

The elf is present to quench his thirst, 
A pure seed-pearl of infant dew, 
Brought and besweetened in a blue, 
And pregnant violet; which done, 

Ilis kitten eyes begin to run 

Quite through the table, when he spies 

The horns of paper butterflies, 

Of which he cats; and tastes a little 
Of that we call the cuckoo’s spittle; 

A little fuz-ball pudding stands 
By, yet not blessed by his hands, 

That was too coarse; but then forth¬ 
with 

He ventures boldly on the pith 
Of sugared rush, and eats the sag 
And well bestrutted bee’s sweet bag 
Glad’ning his palate with some store 
Of emmet’s eggs; what would he 
more ? 

But beards of mice, a newt’s stew’d 
thigh, 

A bloated earwig, and a fly; 

With the red-cap’d worm, that’s shut 
Within the concave of a nut, 

* Oberon’s. 


Fairy Land 


Brown as liis tooth. A little moth, 
Late fatten’d in a piece of cloth; 

With withered cherries, mandrakes’ 
ears, 

Moles’ eyes; to these the slain stag’s 
tears; 

The unctuous dewlaps of a snail, 

The broke heart of a nightingale 
O’er come in music; with a wine 
Ne’er ravish’d from the flattering 
vine, 

Brought in a dainty daisy, which 
He fully quaffs up to bewitch 
His blood to height; this done, com¬ 
mended 

Grace by his priest; the feast is ended. 

Robert Herrick. 

THE PALACE OF THE FAIRIES. 

This palace standeth in the air, 

By necromancy placed there, 

That it no tempests needs to fear, 
Which way so’er it blow it. 

And somewhat southward tow’d the 
noon, 

Whence lies a way up to the moon, 
And thence the fairy can as soon 
Pass to the earth below it. 

The walls of spider’s legs are made 
Well mortised and finely laid; 

He was the master of his trade, 

It curiously that builded; 

The window of the eyes of cats 
And for the roof, instead of slates, 

Is covered with the skin of bats, 

With moonshine that was gilded. 

Michael Drayton. 

THE FAIRY BOY. 

A mother came when stars were 
paling, 

Wailing round a lonely spring; 
Thus she cried while tears were fall¬ 
ing, 

Calling on the Fairy King: 


“Why with spells my child caressing, 
Courting him with fairy joy; 

Why destroy a mother’s blessing, 
Wherefore steal my baby boy ? 

‘ ‘ O ’er the mountain, through the wild- 
wood, 

Where his childhood loved to play; 
Where the flowers are freshly spring¬ 
ing, 

There I wander day by day. 

“There I wander, growing fonder 
Of that child that made my joy; 

On the echoes wildly calling 
To restore my fairy boy. 

“ But in vain my plaintive calling, 
Tears are falling all in vain! 

He now sports with fairy pleasure, 
He’s the treasure of their train! 

“Fare thee well, my child for ever, 

In this world I’ve lost my joy, 

But in the next we ne’er shall sever, 
There I’ll find my angel boy!” 

Samuel Lover. 

THE FAIRY TEMPTER. 

A fair girl was sitting in the green¬ 
wood shade, 

List’ning to the music the spring 
birds made; 

When sweeter by far than the birds 
on the tree, 

A voice murmured near her, “Oh, 
come, love, with me— 

In earth or air, 

A thing so fair 
I have not seen as thee! 

Then come, love, with me.” 

“With a star for thy home, in a 
palace of light, 

Thou wilt add a fresh grace lo the 
beauty of night; 


Poems for Children 


1 54 

Or, if wealth be thy wish, thine are 
treasures untold, 

I will show thee the birthplace of 
jewels and gold— 

And pearly caves 
Beneath the waves, 

All these, all these are thine, 

If thou wilt be mine. ,, 

Thus whispered a fairy to tempt the 
fair girl, 

But vain was the promise of gold and 
of pearl; 

For she said, “Tho’ thy gifts to a 
poor girl were dear, 

My father, my mother, my sisters are 
here: 

Oh! what would be 
Thy gifts to me 
Of earth, and sea, and air 
If my heart were not there ?’ ’ 

Samuel Lover. 


THE ARMING OF PIGWIGGEN. 

He quickly arms him for the field— 
A little cockle-shell his shield. 

Which he could very bravely wield, 
Yet could it not be pierced; 

His spear a bent both stiff and strong, 
And well near of two inches long; 
The pile was of a horse-fly’s tongue, 
Whose sharpness naught reversed: 

And put him on a coat of mail, 

Which was of a fish’s scale, 

That when his foe should him assail, 
No point should be prevailing. 

His rapier was a hornet’s sting, 

It was a very dangerous thing; 

For if he chanced to hurt the king, 

It would be long in healing. 

His helmet was a beetle’s head, 

Most horrible and full of dread, 

That able was to strike one dead, 


Yet it did well become him: 

And for a plume a horse’s hair, 
Which being tossed up by the air, 
Had force to strike his foe with fear, 
And turn his weapon from him. 

Himself he on an earwig set, 

Yet scarce he on his back could get, 
So oft and high he did curvet 
Ere he himself could settle: 

He made him turn, and stop, and 
bound, 

To gallop and to trot the round, 

He scarce could stand on any ground, 
He was so full of mettle. 

Michael Drayton. 

WATER-LILIES. 

A FAIRY SONG. 

Come away, elves, while the dew is 
sweet, 

Come to the dingles where fairies 
meet; 

Know that the lilies have spread their 
bells 

O’er all the pools in our forest dells; 
Stilly and lightly their vases rest 
On the quivering sleep of the water’s 
breast, 

Catching the sunshine through leaves 
that throw 

To their scented bosoms an emerald 
glow; 

And a star from the depth of each 
pearly cup, 

A golden star unto heaven looks up, 

As if seeking its kindred where bright 
they lie, 

Set in the blue of the summer sky. 

—Come away! under arching boughs 
we’ll float, 

Making those urns each a fairy boat; 
We’ll row them with reeds o’er the 
fountains free, 

And a tall flag-leaf shall our streamer 
be, 


Fairy Land 


And we’ll send out wild music so 
sweet and low, 

It shall seem from the bright flower’s 
heart to flow, 

As if ’twere breeze with a flute’s low 
sigh, 

Or water drops train ? d into melody. 

—Come away! for the midsummer 
sun grows strong, 

And the life of the lily may not be 
long. 

Felicia Dorothea Eemails. 


THE HAG. 

The hag is astride, 

This night for a ride, 

Her wild steed and she together; 

Through thick and through thin, 
Now out, and then in, 

Though ne’er so foul be the weather. 

A thorn or a burr 
She takes for a spur; 

With a last of a bramble she rides 
now, 

Through brakes and through 
briars, 

O’er ditches and mires, 

She follows the spirit that guides now. 

No beast for his food 
Dares now range the wood, 

But hush’d in his lair he lies lurking; 
While mischief by these, 

On land and on seas, 

At noon of night are found working. 

The storm will arise 
And trouble the skies, 

This night; and, more for the wonder, 
The ghost from the tomb 
Affrightened shall come, 

Called out by the clap of the thunder. 

Robert Herrick. 


*55 

THE FAIRIES OF THE 
CALDON-LOW. 

A MIDSUMMER LEGEND. 

‘ ‘ And where have you been, my Mary, 
And where have you been from 
me ? ’ ’ 

“I’ve been to the top of Caldon-Low, 
The midsummer night to see! ” 

‘ ‘ And what did you see, my Mary, 

All up on the Caldon-Low ? ’ ’ 

“I saw the glad sunshine come down, 
And I saw the merry winds blow. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ And what did you hear, my Mary, 
All up on the Caldon-Hill?” 

* ‘ I heard the drops of the water made, 

And I heard the green corn fill. ’ ’ 

‘ 1 Oh, tell me all, my Mary— 

All—all that ever you know; 

For you must have seen the fairies 
Last night on the Caldon-Low!” 

‘‘ Then take me on your knee, mother, 
And listen, mother, of mine: 

A hundred fairies danced last night, 
And the harpers they were nine. 

“And the harp-strings rang so merrily 
To their dancing feet so small; 
But, oh! the sound of their talking 
Was merrier far than all!” 

* ‘ And what were the words, my Mary, 

That you did hear them say?” 
“I’ll tell you all, my mother, 

But let me have my way. 

“And some they played with the' 
water, 

And rolled it down the hill; 

‘And this,’ they said, ‘shall speedily 
turn 

The poor old miller’s mill. 


Poems for Children 


156 

“ ‘For there has Oeen no water 

Ever since the first of May; 

And a busy man will the miller be 

At the dawning of the day! 

“ ‘Oh! the miller, how he will laugh, 

When he sees the mill-dam rise! 
The jolly old miller, how he will 
laugh, 

Till the tears fill both his eyes!’ 

“And some they seized the little 
winds, 

That sounded over the hill. 

And each put a horn into his mouth, 

And blew both sharp and shrill: 

“ ‘And there,’ said they, ‘the merry 
winds go 

Away from every horn; 

And these shall clear the mildew 
dank 

From the blind old widow’s corn: 

“ ‘‘Oh, the poor blind widow— 

Though she has been blind so 
long, 

She’ll be merry enough when the 
mildew’s gone, 

And the corn stands stiff and 
strong! ’ 

“And some they brought the brown 
linseed 

And flung it down the Low: 

‘And this,’ said they, ‘by the sunrise 

In the weaver’s croft shall grow! 

“ ‘Oh, the poor lame weaver! 

How will he laugh outright 
When he sees his dwindling flax- 
field 

All full of flowers by night!’ 


“And then outspoke a brownie, 

With a long beard on his chin: 

‘I have spun up all the tow,’ said he, 
‘ And I want some more to spin. 

“ ‘I’ve spun a piece of hempen cloth 
And I want to spin another— 

A little sheet for Mary’s bed, 

And an apron for her mother! ’ 

“And with that I could not help but 
laugh, 

And I laughed out loud and free; 
And then on the top of Caldon-Low 
There was no one left but me. 

“And all on the top of Caldon-Low 
The mists were cold and gray, 
And nothing I saw but the mossy 
stones 

That round about me lay. 

“But, as I came down from the hill¬ 
top, 

I heard, afar below. 

How busy the jolly miller was, 

And how merry the wheels did 
go! 

“And I peeped into the widow’s field, 
And, sure enough, was seen 
The yellow ears of the mildew corn 
All standing stiff and green. 

“And down the weaver’s croft I 
stole, 

To see if the flax were high; 

But I saw the weaver at his gate 
With the good news in his eye! 

“Now, this is all I heard, mother, 

And all that I did see; 

80. prithee, make my bed, mother, 
For I’m tired as I can be!” 

Mary IJomtt. 


*57 


Fairy Land 


THE FAIRY FOLK. 

Come cuddle close in daddy’s coat 
Beside the fire so bright, 

And hear about the fairy folk 
That wander in the night. 

For when the stars arc shining clear 
And all the world is still, 

They float across the silver moon 
From hill to cloudy hill. 

Their caps of red, their cloaks of 
green, 

Are hung with silver bells, 

And when they’re shaken with the 
wind 

Their merry ringing swells. 

And riding on the crimson moth, 
With black spots on his wings, 
They guide them down the purple sky 
With golden bridle rings. 

They love to visit girls and boys 
To see how sweet they sleep, 

To stand beside their cosy cols 
And at their faces peep. 

For in the whole of fairy land 
They have no finer sight 
Than little children sleeping sound 
With faces rosy bright. 

On tip-toe crowding round their 
heads, 

When bright the moonlight beams, 
They whisper little tender words 
That fill their minds with dreams; 
And when they see a sunny smile, 
With lightest finger tips 
They lay a hundred kisses sweet 
Upon the ruddy lips. 


And then the little spotted moths 
Spread out their crimson wings, 
And bear away the fairy crowd 
With shaking bridle rings. 

Come bairnies, hide in daddy’s coat, 
Beside the fire so bright— 
Perhaps the little fairy folk 
Will visit you to-night. 

Robert Montgomery Bird. 

FAIRIES’ RECALL. 

While the blue is richest 
In the starry sky. 

While the softest shadows 
On the greensward lie, 

While the moonlight slumbers 
In the lily’s urn, 

Bright elves of the wild wood! 

Oh! return, return! 

Round the forest fountains, 

On the river shore, 

Lot your silvery laughter 
Echo yet once more, 

While the joyous bounding 
Of your dewy feet 
Rings to that old chorus: 

‘ ‘ The daisy is so sweet! ’ ’ 

Oberon, Titania, 

Did your starlight mirth 
With the song of Avon 
Quit this work-day earth? 

Yet while green leaves glisten 
And while bright stars burn. 

By that magic memory, 

Oh! return, return! 

Felicia Dorothea Remans. 


V 


Fables and Riddles 


THE BOY AND HIS TOP. 

A little Boy had bought a Top, 

The best in all the toyman’s shop; 

He made a whip with good eel ’s-skin, 
He lash’d the top, and made it spin; 
All the children within call, 

And the servants, one and all, 

Stood round to see it and admire. 

At last the Top began to tire, 

He cried out, “Pray don’t hit me, 
Master, 

You whip too hard,—I can’t spin 
faster, 

I can spin quite as well without it.” 
The little Boy replied, “I doubt it; 

I only whip you for your good, 

You were a foolish lump of wood, 

By dint of whipping you were raised 
To see yourself admired and praised, 
And if I left you, you’d remain 
A foolish lump of wood again.” 

EXPLANATION. 

Whipping sounds a little odd, 

I don’t mean whipping with a rod, 

It means to teach a boy incessantly, 
Whether by lessons or more pleasantly. 
Every hour and every day, 

By everj" means in every way, 

By reading, writing, rhyming, talking, 
By riding to see sights, and walking: 
If you leave off he drops at once, 

A lumpish, wooden-headed dunce. 

John Hookham Frere. 


THE BOY AND THE PARROT. 

“Parrot, if I had your wings, 

I should do so many things. 

The first thing I should like to do 
If I had little wings like you, 

I should fly to Uncle Bartle*, 

Don’t you think ’twould make him 
startle, 

If he saw me when I came, 

Flapping at the window frame, 
Exactly like the print of Fame?” 

All this the wise old Parrot heard, 

The Parrot was an ancient bird, 

And paused and pondered eveiy word. 
First, therefore, he began to cough, 
Then said,—“It is a great way off.— 
A great way off, my dear: ’ ’—and then 
He paused a while and coughed 
again,— 

“Master John, pray think a little, 
What will you do for bed and 
victual?” 

—“Oh! Parrot, Uncle John can tell— 
But we should manage very well, 

At night we’d perch upon the trees, 
And so fly forward by degrees.”— 

—“Does Uncle John,” the Parrot 
said, 

“Put nonsense in his nephew’s head? 
Instead of telling you such things, 
nd teaching you to wish for wings, 

* The uncle, Bartholomew Frere, was 
then at Constantinople. 


Fables and Riddl es 


I think he might have taught you 
better; 

You might have learnt to write a 
letter:— 

That is the thing that I should do 
If I had little hands like you.” 

John Hookham Frere. 

THE BOY AND THE WOLF. 

A little Boy was set to keep 
A little flock of goats or sheep. 

He thought the task too solitary, 

And took a strange perverse vagary, 
To call the people out of fun, 

To see them leave their work and run, 
He cried and screamed with all his 
might,— 

“Wolf! wolf!” in a pretended fright. 
Some people, working at a distance, 
Came running in to his assistance. 
They searched the fields and bushes 
round, 

The Wolf was nowhere to be found. 
The Boy, delighted with his game, 

A few days after did the same, 

And once again the people came. 

The trick was many times repeated, 

At last they found that they were 
cheated. 

One day the Wolf appeared in sight, 
The Boy was in a real fright, 

He cried, “Wolf! wolf!”—the neigh¬ 
bours heard, 

But not a single creature stirred. 

“We need not go from our employ,— 
’Tis nothing but that idle boy.” 

The little Boy cried out again, 

“Help, help! the Wolf!” he cried in 
vain. 

At last his master came to beat him. 
He came too late, the Wolf had eat 
him. 

, This shows the bad effect of lying, 

And likewise of continual crying, 

If I had heard you scream and roar, 
For nothing, twenty times before, 


159 

Although you might have broke your 
arm, 

Or met with any serious harm, 

Your cries could give me no alarm, 
They would not make me move the 
faster, 

Nor apprehend the least disaster; 

I should be sorry when I came, 

But you yourself would be to blame. 

John Hookham Frere. 

THE PIECE OF GLASS AND THE 
PIECE OF ICE. 

Once on a time it came to pass, 

A piece of ice and a piece of glass 
Were lying on a bank together. 

There came a sudden change of 
weather, 

The sun shone through them both.— 
The ice 

Turned to his neighbour for advice. 
The piece of glass made this reply— 

‘ ‘ Take care by all means not to cry. ’ ’ 
The foolish piece of ice relied 
On being pitied if he cried. 

The story says—That he cried 011 
Till he was melted and quite gone. 

This may serve you for a rule 
With the little boys at school; 

If you weep, I must forewarn ye, 

All the boys will tease and scorn ye. 

John Hookham Frere. 

THE CAVERN AND THE HUT. 

An ancient cavern, huge and wide, 
Was hollowed in a mountain’s side, 

It served no purpose that I know, 
Except to shelter sheep or so, 

Yet it was spacious, warm, and dry. 
There stood a little hut hard by.— 

The cave was empty quite, and poor, 
The hut was full of furniture; 

By looking to his own affairs, 

He got a table and some chairs, 


Poems for Children 


160 

All useful instruments of metal, 

A pot, a frying-pan, a kettle, 

A clock, a warming-pan, a jack, 

A salt-box and a bacon-rack; 

With plates and knives and forks, and 
dishes. 

And lastly to complete his wishes, 

He got a sumptuous pair of bellows.— 
The cavern was extremely jealous: 

‘ ‘ How can that paltry hut contrive 
In this poor neighbourhood to 
thrive ?’ ’ 

“The reason’s plain,” replied the hut, 
“Because I keep my mouth close shut; 
Whatever my good master brings, 

For furniture, or household things, 

I keep them close and shut the door, 
While you stand yawning evermore.” 

If a little boy is yawning 
At his lesson every morning, 

Teaching him in prose or rhyme 
Will be merely loss of time; 

All your pains are thrown away, 
Nothing will remain a day 
(Nothing you can teach or say 
Nothing he has heard or read), 

In his poor unfurnished head. 

John Hookliam Frcre. 

SHOWING HOW THE CAVERN 
FOLLOWED THE HUT’S ADVICE. 

This fable is a very short one: 

The cave resolved to make his fortune; 
He got a door and in a year 
Enriched himself with wine and beer. 

Mamma will ask jmu, can you tell her, 
What did the cave become ?—A cellar. 

John Hookham Frcre. 

THE MAGPIE’S NEST. 

When the arts in their infancy were, 
I11 a fable of old ’tis express’d 
A wise magpie constructed that rare 
Little house for young birds, call’d 
a nest. 


This was talk’d of the whole country 
round; 

You might hear it on every bough 
sung, 

“Now no longer upon the rough 
ground 

Will fond mothers brood over their 
young: 

“For the magpie with exquisite skill 
Has invented a moss-cover’d cell 

Within which a whole family will 
In the utmost security dwell.” 

To her mate did each female bird say, 
“Let us fly to the magpie, my dear; 

If she will but teach us the way, 

A nest we will build us up here. 

“It’s a thing that’s close arched over¬ 
head, 

With a hole made to creep out and 
in; 

We. my bird, might make just a lied 
If we only knew how to begin.” 

^ # 

To the magpie soon every bird went 
And in modest terms made their re¬ 
quest, 

That she would be pleased to consent 
To teach them to build up a nest. 

She replies, “I will show you the way. 
So observe everything that I do: 

First two sticks ’cross each other I 
lay—” 

‘ ‘ To be sure, ’ ’ said the crow, ‘ 1 why 
I knew 

‘ ‘ It must begin with two sticks, 

And I thought that they crossed 
should be. ’ ’ 

Said the pie, “Then some straw and 
moss mix 

I11 the way you now see done by 
me. ’ ’ 


Fables and Riddl es 161 


“O yes, certainly,” said the jackdaw, 
‘ ‘ That must follow, of course, I have 
thought; 

Though I never before building saw, 
I guess’d that, without being 
taught.” 

“More moss, straw, and feathers, I 
place 

In this manner,” continued the pie. 

“Yes, no doubt, madam, that is the 
case; 

Though no builder myself, so 
thought I.” 

Whatever she taught them beside, 

In his turn every bird of them said, 

Though the nest-making art he ne’er 
tried 

He had just such a thought in his 
head. 

Still the pie went on showing her art. 
Till a nest she had built up half¬ 
way ; 

She no more of her skill would impart, 
But in her anger went fluttering 
away. 

And this speech in their hearing she 
made, 

As she perch’d o’er their heads on a 
tree: 

“If ye all were well skill’d in my 
trade, 

Pray, why came ye to learn it of 
met” 

When a scholar is willing to learn, 

He with silent submission should 
hear; 

Too late they their folly discern, 

The effect to this day does appear. 

For whenever a pie’s nest you see, 
Her charming warm canopy view. 

All birds’ nests but hers seem to be 
A magpie’s nest just cut in two. 

Charles and Mary Lamb. 


THE COTTAGER AND HIS 
LANDLORD. 

FROM THE LATIN OF MILTON. 

A peasant to his lord paid yearly 
court, 

Presenting pippins of so rich a sort, 

That he, displeased to have a part 
alone, 

Removed the tree, that all might be 
his own. 

The tree, too old to travel, though 
before 

So fruitful, withered, and would yield 
no more. 

The ’squire, perceiving all his labour 
void, 

Cursed his own pains, so foolishly 
employed; 

And, “Oh!” he cried, “that I had 
lived content 

With tribute, small indeed, but kindly 
meant! 

My avarice has expensive proved to 
me, 

And cost me both my pippins and my 
tree.” 

William Cowper. 

THE COLUMBRIAD. 

Close by the threshold of a door 
nailed fast 

Three kittens sat; each kitten looked 
aghast; 

I, passing swift and inattentive by, 

At the three kittens cast a careless 
eye; 

Little concerned to know what they 
did there; 

Not deeming kittens worth a poet’s 
care. 

But presently a loud and furious hiss 

Caused me to stop and to exclaim 
“What’s this?” 

When lo! a viper there did meet my 
view 

With head erect and eyes of fiery hue. 


162 Poems for Children 


Forth from his head his forked tongue 
he throws, 

Darting it full against a kitten’s nose! 

Who, never having seen in field or 
house 

The like, sat still and silent as a 
mouse. 

Only projecting, with attention due, 

Her whiskered face, she asked him 
“Who are you?” 

On to the hall went I, with pace not 
slow 

But swift as lightning, for a long 
Dutch hoe; 

With which, well armed, I hastened 
to the spot 

To find the viper;—but I found him 
not; 

And turning up the leaves and shrubs 
around, 

Found only—that he was not to be 
found. 

But still the kittens, sitting as before, 

Were watching close the bottom of the 
door. 

‘ ‘ I hope, ’ ’ said I, ‘ ‘ the villain I would 
kill 

Has slipped between the door and the 
door-sill; 

And if I make despatch, and follow 
hard 

No doubt but I shall find him in the 
yard.” 

(For long ere now it should have been 
rehearsed, 

’Twas in the garden that I found him 
first.) 

Ev’n there I found him; there the 
full-grown cat 

His head, with velvet paw, did gently 
pat; 

As curious as the kittens erst had been 

To learn what this phenomenon might 
mean. 

Filled with heroic ardour at the sight, 

And fearing every moment he would 
bite, 


And rob our household of the only cat 
That was of age to combat with a rat, 
With outstretched hoe I slew him at 
the door, 

And taught him never to come there 

NO MORE. 

William Cowper. 

THE MOUNTAIN AND THE 
SQUIRREL. 

The mountain and the squirrel 
Had a quarrel, 

And the former called the latter “Lit¬ 
tle prig;” 

Bun replied, 

“You are doubtless very big; 

But all sorts of things and weather 
Must be taken in together 
To make up a year, 

And a sphere. 

And I think it no disgrace 
To occupy my place. 

If I’m not so large as you, 

You are not so small as I, 

And not half so spry: 

I’ll not deny you make 
A very pretty squirrel track. 

Talents differ; all is well and wisely 
put; 

If I cannot carry forests on my back, 
Neither can you crack a nut.” 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 

THE RAVEN. 

Underneath a huge oak tree 
There was of swine a huge company. 
That grunted as they crunched the 
mast; 

For that was ripe, and fell full fast. 
Then they trotted away, for the wind 
it grew high: 

One acorn they left, and no more 
might you spy. 

Next came a Raven, that liked not 
such folly: 


Fables and Riddles 


He belonged, they did say, to the 
witch Melancholy! 

Blacker was he than blackest jet, 

Flew low in the rain and his feathers 
not wet. 

He picked up the acorn and buried it 
straight 

By the side of a river both deep and 
great. 

Where then did the Raven go ? 

He went high and low, 

Over hill, over dale, did the black 
Raven go. 

Many autumns, many springs 

Travelled he with wandering wings: 

Many summers, many winters— 

I can’t tell half his adventures. 

At length he came back and with him 
a she, 

And the acorn was grown to a tall oak 
tree. 

They built them a nest in the top-most 
bough, 

And young ones they had, and were 
happy enow. 

But soon came a woodman in leathern 
guise, 

His brow, like a pent house hung over 
his eyes. 

He’d an axe in his hand, not a word 
he spoke, 

But with many a hem! and a sturdy 
stroke, 

At length he brought down the poor 
Raven’s old oak. 

His young ones were killed, for they 
could not depart, 

And their mother did die of a broken 
heart. 

The boughs from the trunk the wood¬ 
man did sever; 

And they floated it down on the course 
of the river. 

They sawed it in planks, and its back 
they did strip, 

And with this tree and others they 
made a good ship. 


163 

The ship it was launched, but in sight 
of the land 

Such a storm there did rise as no ship 
could withstand. 

It bulged on a rock, and the waves 
rushed in fast; 

The old Raven flew round and round, 
and cawed to the blast. 

He heard the last shriek of the perish¬ 
ing souls— 

See! see! o’er the top-mast the mad 
water rolls! 

Right glad was the Raven, and off 
he went fleet, 

And Death riding home on a cloud he 
did meet, 

And he thanked him again and again 
for this treat: 

They had taken his all, and revenge 
it was sweet. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 

THE GOURD AND THE PALM. 

(A Persian Fable.) 

“How old art thou?” said the garru¬ 
lous gourd, 

As o’er the palm-tree’s crest it poured 
Its spreading leaves and tendrils fine, 
And hung a bloom in the morning 
shine. 

“A hundred years!” the palm-tree 
sighed: 

“ And 7 ,” the saucy gourd replied, 
“Am at the most a hundred hours, 
And overtop thee in the bowers! ’ ’ 

Through all the palm-tree’s leaves 
there went 

A tremor as of self-content. 

“I live my life,” it whispering said, 
“See what I see, and count the dead; 
And every year, of all I’ve known, 

A gourd above my head I’ve grown, 
And made a boast, like thine to-day; 
Yet here 1 stand—but where are 
they?” 


Unknown. 


Poems for Children 


164 

THE WATERFALL AND THE 
EGLANTINE. 

“Begone, thou fond presumptuous 
Elf, ’ ’ 

Exclaimed an angry voice, 

“Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self 
Between me and my choice! *’ 

A small Cascade fresh swoln with 
snows 

Thus threatened a poor Briar-rose, 
That, all bespattered with his foam, 
And dancing high and dancing low, 
AVas living, as a child might know, 

In an unhappy home. 

“Dost thou presume my course to 
block? 

Off, off! or, puny Thing! 

I ’ll hurl thee headlong with the rock 
To which thy fibres cling.” 

The Flood was tyrannous and strong, 
The patient Briar suffered long, 

Nor did he utter groan or sigh, 

Hoping the danger would be past; 
But, seeing no relief, at last, 

He ventured to reply. 

“Ah!” said the Briar, “blame me 
not: 

AVhy should we dwell in strife? 

AVe who in this sequestered spot 
Once lived a happy life! 

You stirred me on my rocky bed— 
AVhat pleasure through my veins you 
spread! 

The summer long, from day to day, 
My leaves you freshened and bedewed: 
Nor was it common gratitude 
That did your cares repay. 

“When spring came on with bud and 
bell, 

Among the rocks did I, 

Before you hang my wreaths to tell 
That gentle days were nigh! 


And in the sultry summer hours, 

I sheltered you with leaves and flow¬ 
ers; 

And in my leaves—now shed and 
gone— 

The linnet lodged, and for us two 
Chanted his pretty songs, when you 
Had little voice or none. 

‘ ‘ But now proud thoughts are in your 
breast— 

AVhat grief is mine you see, 

Ah! would you think, even yet how 
blest 

Together we might be! 

Though of both leaf and flower bereft, 
Some ornaments to me are left— 

Rich store of scarlet hips is mine, 
With which I, in my humble way, 
AA r ould deck you many a winter day; 
A happy Eglantine!” 

AVhat more he said I cannot tell, 

The stream came thundering down 
the dell, 

AVith aggravated haste: 

I listened, nor aught else could hear; 
The Briar quaked—and much I fear 
Those accents were his last. 

William Wordsworth. 

THE NIGHTINGALE AND 
GLOW-WORM. 

A nightingale, that all day long 
Had cheered the village with his song, 
Nor yet at eve his note suspended, 

Nor yet when eventide was ended, 
Began to feel, as well he might, 

The keen demands of appetite; 

When, looking eagerly around, 

He spied far off, upon the ground, 

A something shining in the dark, 

And knew the glow-worm by his 
spark ; 

So, stooping down from hawthorn top, 
He thought to put him in his crop. 


Fables and Riddles 


The worm, aware of his intent, 

] Iarangued him thus, right eloquent— 
“Did you admire my lamp,” quoth he, 
* ‘ As much as I your minstrelsy, 

You would abhor to do me wrong, 

As much as I to spoil your song; 

For ’twas the self-same power divine, 
Taught you to sing, and me to shine; 
That you with music, I with light, 
Might beautify and cheer the night. ’ ’ 
The songster heard his short oration, 
And warbling out his approbation, 
Released him, as my story tells, 

And found a supper somewhere else. 

William Cowper. 

GOD’S JUDGMENT ON A WICKED 
BISHOP. 

The summer and autumn had been so 
wet 

That in winter the corn was growing 
yet: 

’Twas a piteous sight to see, all 
around, 

The grain lie rotting on the ground. 

Every day the starving poor 
Crowded around Bishop Hatto’s door; 
For he had a plentiful last year’s 
store, 

And all the neighbourhood could tell 
His granaries were furnished well. 

At last Bishop Hatto appointed a day 
To quiet the poor without delay: 

He bade them to his great barn repair, 
And they should have food for the 
winter there. 

Rejoiced such tidings good to hear, 
The poor folk flocked from far and 
near; 

The great barn was full as it could 
hold 

Of women and children, and young 
and old. 


165 

Then, when he saw it could hold no 
more, 

Bishop Hatto he made fast the door; 

And while for mercy on Christ they 
call, 

He set fire to the barn, and burnt 
them all. 

“T faith ’tis an excellent bonfire!” 
quoth he, 

“And the country is greatly obliged 
to me 

For ridding it, in these times forlorn, 

Of rats that only consume the corn.” 

So then to his palace returned he, 

And he sat down to supper merrily, 

And he slept that night like an inno¬ 
cent man; 

But Bishop Hatto never slept again. 

In the morning, as he entered the hall 

Where his picture hung against the 
wall, 

A sweat like death all over him came, 

For the rats had eaten it out of the 
frame. 

As he looked, there came a man from 
his farm; 

He had a countenance white with 
alarm; 

“My lord, I opened your granaries 
this morn, 

And the rats had eaten all your corn.” 

Another came running presently, 

And he was as pale as pale could be: 

‘ 1 Fly! my lord bishop, fly! ’ ’ quoth he. 

“Ten thousand rats are coming this 
way: 

The Lord forgive you for yesterday! ’ ’ 

“I’ll go to my tower on the Rhine,” 
replied he; 

“ ’Tis the safest place in Germany; 


166 Poems for Children 


The walls are high, and the shores are 
steep, 

And the stream is strong, and water 
deep.” 

Bishop Hatto fearfully hastened away, 

And he crossed the Rhine without 
delay, 

And reached his tower, and barred 
with care 

All windows, doors, and loop-holes 
there. 


He laid him down and closed his 
eyes,— 

But soon a scream made him arise, 

He started, and saw two eyes of flame 

On his pillow, from whence the 
screaming came. 

He listened and looked; it was only 
the cat; 

But the Bishop grew more fearful for 
that, 

For she sat screaming, mad with fear 

At the army of rats that were drawing 
near. 

For they have swam over the river so 
deep, 

And they have climbed the shores so 
steep, 

And up the tower their way is bent 

To do the work for which they were 
sent. 

They are not to be told by a dozen or 
score, 

By thousands they come, and by 
myriads and more; 

Such numbers had never been heard 
of before. 

Such a judgment had never been wit¬ 
nessed of yore. 


Down on his knees the Bishop fell, 

And faster and faster his beads did 
tell, 

As louder and louder drawing near 

The gnawing of their teeth he could 
hear. 

And in at the windows, and in at the 
door, 

And through the walls helter-skelter 
they pour, 

And down from the ceiling, and up 
through the floor, 

From the right and the left, from be¬ 
hind and before, 

From within and without, from above 
and below, 

And all at once to the Bishop they go. 

They have whetted their teeth against 
the stones, 

And now they pick the Bishop’s 
bones; 

They gnaw the flesh from every limb, 

For they were sent to do judgment on 
hiim 

Robert Southey. 


APPLE-SEED JOHN. 

Poor Johnny was bended well nigh 
double 

With years of toil, and care, and 
trouble; 

But his large old heart still felt the 
need 

Of doing for others some kindly deed. 

“But what can I do,” old Johnny 
said: 

‘ ‘ I who work so hard for daily bread ? 

It takes heaps of money to do much 
good; 

I am far too poor to do as I would.” 


Fables and Riddles 167 


The old man sat thinking deeply a 
while, 

Then over his features gleamed a 
smile, 

And he clapped his hands with a boy¬ 
ish glee, 

And said to himself: “There’s a way 
for me! ’’ 

He worked, and he worked with might 
and main, 

But no one knew the plan in his brain. 

He took ripe apples in pay for chores, 

And carefully cut from them all the 
cores. 

He filled a bag full, then wandered 
away, 

And no man saw him for man} 7 ' a day. 

With knapsack over his shoulder 
slung, 

He marched along, and whistled or 
sung. 

He seemed to roam with no object in 
view, 

Like one who had nothing on earth to 
do; 

But, journeying thus o’er the prairies 
wide, 

He paused now and then, and his bag 
untied. 

With pointed cane deep holes he would 
bore, 

And in every hole he placed a core; 

Then covered them well, and left them 
there 

In keeping of sunshine, rain, and air. 

Sometimes for days he waded through 
grass, 

And saw not a living creature pass, 

But often, when sinking to sleep in 
the dark, 

He heard the owls hoot and the prai¬ 
rie-dogs bark. 


Sometimes an Indian of sturdy limb 

Came striding along and walked with 
him; 

And he who had food shared with the 
other, 

As if he had met a hungry brother. 

When the Indian saw how the bag was 
filled, 

And looked at the holes that the white 
man drilled, 

He thought to himself ’twas a silly 
plan 

To be planting seed for some future 
man. 

Sometimes a log cabin came in view, 

Where Johnny was sure to find jobs 
to do, 

By which he gained stores of bread 
and meat, 

And welcome rest for his weary feet. 

He had full many a story to tell, 

And goodly hymns that he sung right 
well; 

He tossed up the babes, and joined the 
boys 

In many a game full of fun and noise. 

And he seemed so hearty, in work or 
play, 

Men, women, and boys all urged him 
to stay; 

But he always said: “I have some¬ 
thing to do, 

And I must go on to carry it through. ” 

The boys who were sure to follow him 
round, 

Soon found what it was he put in the 
ground; 

And so, as time passed and he trav¬ 
elled on, 

Ev’ry one called him “Old Apple- 
Seed John.” 


Poems for Children 


168 

Whenever he’d used the whole of his 
store, 

He went into cities and worked for 
more; 

Then he marched back to the wilds 
again, 

And planted seed on hillside and 
plain. 

In cities, some said the old man was 
crazy; 

While others said he was only lazy; 

But he took no notice of gibes and 
jeers, 

He knew he was working for future 
years. 

He knew that trees would soon abound 

Where once a tree could not have 
been found; 

That a flick’ring play of light and 
shade 

Would dance and glimmer along the 
glade; 

That blossoming sprays would form 
fair bowers, 

And sprinkle the grass with rosy 
showers; 

And the little seeds his hands had 
spread, 

Would become ripe apples when he 
was dead. 

80 he kept on travelling far and wide, 

Till his old limbs failed him, and he 
died. 

He said at the last: “’Tis a comfort 
to feel 

I’ve done good in the world, though 
not a great deal.” 

Weary travellers, journeying west, 

In the shade of his trees find pleasant 
rest; 

And they often start, with glad sur¬ 
prise, 

At the rosy fruit that round them 
lies. 


And if they inquire whence came such 
trees, 

Where not a bough once swayed in 
the breeze, 

The answer still comes, as they travel 
on: 

“These trees were planted by Apple- 
Seed John.” 

Lydia Maria Child. 


THE FOX AT THE POINT OF 
DEATH. 

A rox in life’s extreme decay, 

Weak, sick and faint, expiring lay; 
All appetite had left his maw, 

And age disarm’d his mumbling jaw. 
His numerous race around him stand 
To learn their dying sire’s command. 
He raised his head with whining moan, 
And thus was heard the feeble tone: 

‘ 1 Ah, sons, from evil ways depart; 
My crimes lie heavy on my heart. 

See, see, the murder’d geese appear! 
Why are those bleeding turkeys there ? 
Why all around this cackling train 
Who haunt my ears for chickens 
slain ? ’ ’ 

The hungry foxes round them 
star’d, 

And for the promis’d feast prepar’d. 
“Where, sir, is all this dainty 
cheer ? 

Nor turkey, goose, nor hen is here. 
These are the phantoms of your brain ; 
And your sons lick their lips in vain. ’ ’ 
“0, gluttons,” says the drooping 
sire, 

‘ ‘ Restrain inordinate desire. 

Your liquorish taste you shall deplore, 
When peace of conscience is no more. 
Does not the hound betray our pace? 
And gins and guns destroy our race? 
Thieves dread the searching eye of 
power 

And never feel the quiet hour. 


Fables and Riddles 


Old age (which few of us shall know) 
Now puts a period to my woe. 

Would you true happiness attain, 

Let honesty your passions rein; 

So live in credit and esteem, 

And the good name you lost redeem.’’ 
“The counsel’s good” (a fox re¬ 
plies), 

‘ ‘ Could we perform what you advise. 
Think what our ancestors have done; 
A line of thieves from son to son. 

To us descends the long disgrace, 

And infamy hath marked our race. 
Though we like harmless sheep should 
feed, 

Honest in thought, in word, in deed, 
Whatever hen-roost is decreas’d, 

We shall be thought to share the feast. 
The change shall never be believ’d, 

A lost good name is ne’er retriev’d.” 

“Nay then,” replies the feeble fox, 
“ (But hark, I hear a hen that clucks), 
Go; but be moderate in your food; 

A chicken, too, might do me good. ’ ’ 

John Gay. 

THE LION AND THE CUB. 

A lion cub, of sordid mind, 

Avoided all the lion kind; 

Fond of applause, he sought the feasts 
Of vulgar and ignoble beasts; 

With asses all his time he spent, 

Their club’s perpetual president. 

He caught their manners, looks, and 
airs; 

An ass in everything but earsj 
If e’er his Highness meant a joke, 
They grinn’d applause before he 
spoke; 

But at each word what shouts of 
praise; 

Good gods! how naturally he brays! 

Elate with flattery and conceit, 

He seeks his royal sire’s retreat; 
Forward and fond to show his parts, 
His Highness brays; the lion starts. 


169 

“Puppy! that curs’d vociferation 
Betrays thy life and conversation: 
Coxcombs, an ever noisy race, 

Arc trumpets of their own disgrace.” 

‘ ‘ Why so severe ? ’ ’ the cub replies; 

11 Our senate always held me wise! ’ ’ 
“How weak is pride,” returns the 
sire: 

i * All fools are vain when fools admire! 
But know, what stupid asses prize, 
Lions and noble beasts despise. ’ ’ 

John Gay. 

THE TURKEY AND THE ANT. 

In other men we faults can spy, 

And blame the mote that dims their 
eye; 

Each little speck and blemish find, 

To our own stronger errors blind. 

A Turkey, tired of common food, 
Forsook the barn, and sought the 
wood; 

Behind her ran an infant train, 
Collecting, here and there, a grain. 
“Draw near, my birds,” the mother 
cries, 

“This hill delicious fare supplies. 
Behold the busy negro race,— 

See, millions blacken all the place! 
Fear not; like me with freedom eat; 
An ant is most delightful meat. 

How blest, how envied, were our life, 
Could we but ’scape the poulterer’s 
knife: 

But man, cursed man, on Turkeys 
preys, 

And Christmas shortens all our clays. 
Sometimes with oysters we combine, 
Sometimes assist the savoury chine; 
From the low peasant to the lord, 
The Turkey smokes on every board. 
Some men for gluttony are cursed, 

Of the seven deadly sins the worst.” 
An ant, who climbed beyond her 
reach, 

Thus answer’d from a neighbouring 
beech; 


Poems for Children 


170 

“Ere you remark another’s sin, 

Bid thy own conscience look within; 

Control thy more voracious will, 

Nor, for a breakfast, nations kill. ’ ’ 

John Gay. 

THE DOG OF REFLECTION. 

A dog growing thinner, for want of a 
dinner, 

Once purloin’d a joint from a tray; 

“How happy I am, with this shoulder 
of lamb! ’ ’ 

Thought the cur, as he trotted away. 

But the way that he took, lay just 
over a brook, 

Which he found it was needful to 
cross, 

So, without more ado, he plunged in to 
go through, 

Not dreaming of danger or loss. 

But what should appear, in this 
rivulet clear, 

As he thought upon coolest reflec¬ 
tion, 

But a cur like himself, who with ill- 
gotten pelf, 

Had run off in that very direction. 

Thought the dog, a propos! but that 
instant let go 

(As he snatched at this same water- 
spaniel), 

The piece he possess’d—so, with hun¬ 
ger distress’d, 

He slowly walk’d home to his ken¬ 
nel. 

Hence, when we are needy, don’t let 
us be greedy 

(Excuse me this line of digression), 

Lest in snatching at all, like the dog, 
we let fall 

The good that we have in possession. 

Jeffreys Taylor. 


THE MILKMAID. 

A milkmaid, who poised a full pail on 
her head, 

Thus mused 011 her prospects in life, 
it is said: 

“Let me see—I should think that this 
milk will procure 

One hundred good eggs, or fourscore, 
to be sure. 

“Well then—stop a bit—it must not 
be forgotten, 

Some of these may be broken, and 
some may be rotten; 

But if twenty for accident should be 
detached, 

It will leave me just sixty sound eggs 
to be hatched. 

“Well, sixty sound eggs—no, sound 
chickens, I mean: 

Of these some may die—we ’ll suppose 
seventeen. 

Seventeen! not so many—say ten at 
the most, 

Which will leave fifty chickens to boil 
or to roast. 

“But then, there’s their barley, how 
much will they need? 

Why they take but one grain at a time 
when they feed— 

So that’s a mere trifle; now then, let 
us see, 

At a fair market price, how much 
money there’ll be. 

“Six shillings a pair—five—four— 
three-and-six. 

To prevent all mistakes, that low price 
I will fix: 

Now what will that make? fifty 
chickens, I said— 

Fifty times three-and-sixpence— I’ll 
ask brother Ned. 


Fables and Riddles 


“ 0! but stop—three-and-sixpence a 
pair I must sell ’em; 

Well, a pair is a couple—now then let 
us tell ’em; 

A couple in fifty will go—(my poor 
brain!) 

Why just a score times, and five pair 
will remain. 

‘'Twenty-five pair of fowls—now how 
tiresome it is 

That I can’t reckon up such money 
as this! 

Well there’s no use in trying, so let’s 
give a guess— 

I ’ll say twenty pounds, and it can’t be 
no less . 

“Twenty pounds, I am certain, will 
buy me a cow, 

Thirty geese and two turkeys—eight 
pigs and a sow; 

Now if these turn out well, at the end 
of the year, 

I shall fill both my pockets with 
guineas, ’tis clear. ’ ’ 

Forgetting her burden, when this she 
had said, 

The maid superciliously tossed up 
her head; 

When, alas! for her prospects—her 
milk-pail descended, 

And so all her schemes for the future 
were ended. 

This moral, I think, may be safely 
attached,— 

“Reckon not on your chickens before 
they are hatched. ’ ’ 

Jeffreys Taylor. 

THE LION AND THE MOUSE. 

A lion with the heat oppress’d, 

One day composed himself to rest; 

But whilst he dozed, as he intended, 

A mouse his royal back ascended; 


I71 

Nor thought of harm, as iEsop tells, 
Mistaking him for some one else; 

And travell’d over him, and round 
him, 

And might have left him as he found 
him 

Had he not—tremble when you hear— 
Tried to explore the monarch’s ear! 
Who straightway woke, with wrath 
immense, 

And shook his head to cast him thence. 
“You rascal, what are you about?” 
Said he, when he had turned him out. 
“I’ll teach you soon,” the lion said, 

‘ ‘ To make a mouse-hole in my head! ’ ’ 
So saying, he prepared his foot 
To crush the trembling tiny brute; 
But he (the mouse) with tearful eye, 
Implored the lion’s clemency, 

Who thought it best at last to give 
His little pris ’ner a reprieve. 

’Twas nearly twelve months after 
this, 

The lion chanced his way to miss; 
When pressing forward, heedless yet, 
He got entangled in a net. 

With dreadful rage, he stampt and 
tore, 

And straight commenced a lordly 
roar ; 

When the poor mouse, who heard the 
noise, 

Attended, for she knew his voice. 
Then what the lion’s utmost strength 
Could not effect, she did at length; 
With patient labour she applied 
Her teeth, the network to divide; 

And so at last forth issued he, 

A lion , by a mouse set free. 

Few are so small or weak, I guess, 
But may assist us in distress, 

Nor shall we ever, if we’re wise, 

The meanest, or the least despise. 

Jeffreys Taylor. 


172 


Poems for Children 


THE YOUNG MOUSE. 

In a crack near a cupboard, with dain¬ 
ties provided, 

A certain young mouse with her 
mother resided; 

So securely they lived on that for¬ 
tunate spot, 

Any mouse in the land might have 
envied their lot. 

But one day this young mouse, who 
was given to roam, 

Having made an excursion some way 
from her home, 

On a sudden return’d, with such joy 
in her eyes, 

That her grey sedate parent express’d 
some surprise. 

‘ ‘ 0 mother! ’ ’ said she, ‘ ‘ the good folks 
of this house, 

I’m convinced, have not any ill-will 
to a mouse, 

And those talcs can’t be true which 
you always are telling, 

For they’ve been at the pains to con¬ 
struct us a dwelling. 

“The floor is of wood, and the walls 
are of wires, 

Exactly the size that one’s comfort 
requires; 

And I’m sure that we should there 
have nothing to fear, 

If ten cats with their kittens at once 
should appear. 

“And then they have made such nice 
holes in the walls, 

One could slip in and out with no 
trouble at all, 

But forcing one through such crannies 
as these, 

Always gives one’s poor ribs a most 
terrible squeeze. 


“But the best of all is, they’ve pro¬ 
vided us well, 

With a large piece of cheese of most 
exquisite smell, 

’Twas so nice, I had put my head in 
to go through, 

When I thought it my duty to come 
and fetch you.” 

“Ah, child!” said her mother, “be¬ 
lieve, I entreat, 

Both the cage and the cheese are a 
horrible cheat. 

Do not think all that trouble they took 
for our good; 

They would catch us and kill us all 
there if they could, 

As they’ve caught and killed scores, 
and I never could learn 

That a mouse who once enter’d, did 
ever return! ’ ’ 

Let the young people mind what the 
old people say, 

And when danger is near them, keep 
out of the way. 

Jeffreys Taylor . 

THE DAISY’S SONG. 

(A Fragment.) 

The sun, with his great eye, 

Sees not so much as I; 

And the moon, all silver-proud 
Might as well be in a cloud. 

And 0 the spring—the spring! 

I lead the life of a king! 

Couch’d in the teeming grass, 

I spy each pretty lass. 

I look where no one dares, 

And I stare where no one stares, 
And when the night is nigh 
Lambs bleat my lullaby. 

John Keats. 


Fables and Riddles 173 


A BOOK. 

I ’m a new contradiction; I ’m new and 
I’m old, 

I’m often in tatters, and oft deck’d 
in gold: 

Though I never could read, yet let¬ 
ter’d I’m found; 

Though blind, I enlighten; though 
loose, I am bound— 

I am always in black, and I’m always 
in white; 

I am grave and I’m gay, I am heavy 
and light. 

In form too I differ—I’m thick and 
I’m thin, 

I’ve no flesh, and no bones, yet I’m 
cover’d with skin; 

I’ve more points than the compass, 
more stops than the flute— 

I sing without voice, without speak¬ 
ing confute; 

I’m English, I’m German, I’m French 
and I’m Dutch; 

Some love me too fondly; some slight 
me too much; 

I often die soon, though I sometimes 
live ages, 

And no monarch alive has so many 
pages. 

Hannah More. 


A RIDDLE. 

THE LETTER “H.” 

’Twas whispered in Heaven, ’twas 
muttered in hell, 

Our echo caught faintly the sound as 
it fell; 

On the confines of earth, ’twas per¬ 
mitted to rest, 

And the depths of the ocean its pres¬ 
ence confess’d; 

’Twill be found in the sphere when 
’tis riven asunder, 

Be seen in the lightning, and heard 
in the thunder; 


’Twas allotted to man, with his earliest 
breath, 

Attends him at birth and awaits him 
in death, 

Presides o’er his happiness, honour 
and health, 

Is the prop of his house, and the end 
of his wealth, 

In the heaps of the miser ’tis hoarded 
with care, 

But is sure to be lost on his prodigal 
heir; 

It begins every hope, every wish it 
must bound, 

With the husbandman toils, and with 
monarchs is crowned; 

Without it the soldier and seaman 
may roam, 

But woe to the wretch who expels it 
from home! 

I11 the whispers of conscience its voice 
will be found, 

Nor e’er in the whirlwind of passion 
be drowned; 

’Twill soften the heart; but though 
deaf be the ear, 

It will make it acutely and instantly 
hear. 

Set in shade, let it rest like a delicate 
flower; 

Ah! breathe on it softly, it dies in an 
hour. 

Catherine Maria Fanshawe. 


A RIDDLE. 

THE VOWELS. 

We are little airy creatures, 

All of different voice and features; 
One of us in glass is set, 

One of us you’ll find in jet. 

T ’other you may see in tin, 

And the fourth a box within. 

If the fifth you should pursue, 

It can never fly from you. 

Jonathan Swift. 


Poems for Children 


>74 

ABC. 

Oh, thou alphabetic row, 

Fun and freedom’s early foe; 

Shall I e’er forget the primer, 

Or the teacher Mrs. Trimmer— 

Or the problem then so vast, 

Whether Z was first or last ? 

All pandora had for me 
Was emptied forth in A B C. 

Curious letters—single—double, 
Source of many a childish trouble, 
How I strove with pouting pain 
To get thee quarter’d on my brain. 
But when the giant feat was done, 
How noble was the field I’d won! 

Wit, wisdom, reason, rhyme—the key 
To all their wealth but ABC. 

Ye really ought to be exempt 
From slighting taunt and cool con¬ 
tempt 

But, drinking deep from learning’s 
cup 

We scorn the hand that filled it up. 
Be courteous, pedants — stay and 
thank 

Your servants of the Roman rank, 

For F. R. S. and L. L. D. 

Can only follow ABC. 

Eliza Cook. 

THE LETTERS AT SCHOOL. 

One day the letters went to school, 
And tried to teach each other, 

. .They got so mixed, ’twas really hard 
To pick one from the other. 

A went in first, and Z went last; 

The rest were all between them,— 

K L and M and NOP— 

I wish you could have seen them! 

BCDEand JKL, 

Soon jostled well their betters; 

Q R S T—I grieve to say— 

Were very naughty letters. 


Of course, ere long they came to 
words— 

What else could be expected! 

Till E made D J C and T 
Decidedly dejected. 

Now through it all the consonants 
Were rudest and uncouthest, 

While all the pretty vowel girls 
Were certainly the smoothest. 

And nimble U kept far from Q, 

With face demure and moral, 
“Because,” she said, “we are, we two, 
So apt to start a quarrel!” 

But spiteful P said, “Pooh for U! ” 
(Which made her feel quite bitter), 
And, calling 0 L E to help, 

He really tried to hit her. 

Cried A, “Now, E and C come here! 

If both will aid a minute, 

Good P will join in making peace! 

Or else the mischief’s in it. ’ ’ 

And smiling E the ready sprite, 

Said, “Yes, and count me double.” 
This done, sweet peace shone o’er the 
scene, 

And gone was ail the trouble! 

Meanwhile, when U and P made up, 
The cons ’nants looked about them, 
And kissed the vowels, for, you see, 
They couldn’t do without them. 

Unknown. 

THE CAMEL’S NOSE. 

Once in his shop a workman wrought, 
With languid head and listless 
thought, 

When, through the open window’s 
space, 

Behold, a camel thrust his face! 

“My nose is cold,” he meekly cried; 

‘ * Oh, let me warm it by thy side! ’ ’ 


Fables and Riddl es 


'75 


Since no denial word was said, 

In came the nose, in came the head: 
As sure as sermon follows text, 

The long and scraggy neck came 
next; 

And then, as falls the threatening 
storm, 

In leaped the whole ungainly form. 

Aghast the owner gazed around, 

And on the rude invader frowned, 
Convinced, as closer still he pressed, 
There was no room for such a guest; 
Yet more astonished, heard him say, 
“If thou art troubled, go away, 

For in this place I choose to stay. ’ ’ 

0 youthful hearts to gladness born, 
Treat not this Arab lore with scorn! 
To evil habits’ earliest wile 
Lend neither ear, nor glance, nor 
smile. 

Choke the dark fountain ere it flows, 
Nor e’en admit the camel’s nose! 

Lydia Huntly Sigourney . 


NOW AND THEN. 

In distant days of wild romance, 

Of magic mist and fable, 

When stones could argue, trees ad¬ 
vance, 

And brutes to talk were able; 
When shrubs and flowers were said to 
preach, 

And manage all the parts of speech ;— 
’Twas then, no doubt, if ’twas at all, 
(But doubts we need not mention,) 
That then and now, two adverbs 
small, 

Engaged in sharp contention; 

But how they made each other hear, 
Tradition doth not make appear. 


Then was a sprite of subtle frame, 
With rainbow tints invested, 

On clouds of dazzling light she came, 
And stars her forehead crested; 
Her sparkling eye of azure hue 
Seemed borrowed from the distant 
blue. 

Now rested on the solid earth, 

And sober was her vesture; 

She seldom either grief or mirth 
Expressed by word or gesture; 
Composed, sedate, and firm she stood, 
And looked industrious, calm, and 
good. 

Then sang a wild, fantastic song, 
Light as the gale she flies on; 

Still stretching, as she sailed along 
Towards the fair horizon, 

Where clouds of radiance, fringed 
with gold, 

O ’er hills of emerald beauty rolled. 

Now rarely raised her sober eye 
To view the golden distance: 

Nor let one idle minute fly 
In hope of then’s assistance; 

But still, with busy hands, she stood, 
Intent on doing present good. . 

She ate the sweet but homely fare 
That passing moments brought her: 
While then, expecting dainties rare, 
Despised such bread and water; 
And waited for the fruits and flowers 
Of future, still receding hours. 

Now, venturing once to ask her why, 
She answered with invective; 

And pointed as she made reply, 
Towards that long perspective 
Of years to come, in distant blue, 
Wherein she meant to live and do. 


Poems for Children 


176 

“Alas!” says she, “how hard you 
toil, 

With undiverted sadness! 

Behold yon land of wine and oil— 
Those sunny hills of gladness; 
Those joys I wait with eager brow”— 
‘ ‘ And so you always will, ’ ’ said now. 

“That fairy land that looks so real, 
Recedes as you pursue it; 

Thus while you wait for times ideal, 

I take my work and do it; 

Intent to form, when time is gone, 

A pleasant past to look upon. ’ ’ 

“Ah, well,” said then, “I envy not 
Your dull fatiguing labours; 
Aspiring to a brighter lot, 

With thousands of my neighbours; 
Soon as I reach that golden hill”— 
“But that,” says now, “you never 
will. ’ ’ 

“And e’en suppose you should,” said 
she, 

“ (Though mortal ne’er attained it,) 
Your nature you must change with 
me, 

The moment you had gained it: 
Since hope fulfilled, you must allow, 
Turns now to then, and then to 
now. ’ ’ 

Jane Taylor. 

HOW-D’-Y’-DO AND GOOD-BYE. 

One day, Good-bye met How-d’-y’-do, 
Too close to shun saluting, 

But soon the rival sisters flew, 

From kissing to disputing. 

“Away!” says How-d’-y’-do, “your 
mien 

Appals my cheerful nature; 

No name so sad as yours is seen 
In Sorrow’s nomenclature. 


‘ ‘ Where ’er I give one sunshine hour, 
Your cloud comes o’er to shade it; 
Whene ’er I plant one bosom flower, 
Your mildew drops to fade it. 

“Ere How-d’-y’-do has tun’d each 
tongue 

To Hope’s delightful measure; 
Good-bye in Friendship’s ear is sung, 
The knell of parting pleasure! 

“From sorrow’s past, my chemic skill 
Draws smiles of consolation, 

While you from present joys distil 
The tears of separation.”— 

Good-bye replied, “Your statement’s 
true, 

And well your cause you’ve pleaded; 
But pray who’d think of How-d’-y’- 
do, 

Unless Good-bye preceded? 

“Without my prior influence, 

Could yours have ever flourished; 
And can your hand one flower dis¬ 
pense 

But those my tears have nourish’d ? 

“How oft, if at the court of Love, 
Concealment be the fashion, 

When How-d’-y’-do has failed to 
move, 

Good-bye reveals the passion. 

“How oft, when Cupid’s fires decline, 
As every heart remembers, 

One sigh of mine, and only mine, 
Revives the dying embers. 

“Go bid the timid lover choose, 

And I’ll resign my charter; 

If he, for ten kind How-d’-y’-do’s, 
One kind Good-bye would barter. 


Fables and Riddles 


“Prom Love and Friendship’s kin¬ 
dred source 

We both derive existence, 

And they would both lose half their 
force, 

Without our joint assistance. 

‘ ‘ Tis well the world our merit knows, 
Since time there’s no denying, 

One half in How-d’-y’-doing goes, 
And t’other in Good-byeing.” 

William Robert Spencer. 


DISPUTE BETWEEN NOSE 
AND EYES. 

Between Nose and Eyes a strange 
contest arose, 

The spectacles set them unhappily 
wrong; 

The point in dispute was, as all the 
world knows, 

To which the said spectacles ought 
to belong. 

So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued 
the cause 

With a great deal of skill, and a wig 
full of learning, 

While chief Baron Ear, sat to balance 
the laws, 

So famed for his talent, in nicely 
discerning. 

“In behalf of the Nose, it will quickly 
appear, 

And your lordship,” he said, “will 
undoubtedly find 

That the Nose has had spectacles al¬ 
ways in wear, 

Which amounts to possession,—time 
out of mind.” 


>77 

Then holding the Spectacles up to the 
court— 

“Your lordship observes they are 
made with a straddle, 

As wide as the ridge of the Nose is—in 
short, 

Designed to sit close to it, just like 
a saddle. 

“Again, would your lordship a mo¬ 
ment suppose 

(’Tis a case that has happened, and 
may be again), 

That the visage or countenance had 
not a nose, 

Pray who would, or who could, wear 
spectacles then ? 

“On the whole it appears, and my 
argument shows 

With a reasoning the court will 
never condemn, 

That the spectacles plainly were made 
for the nose, 

And the nose was as plainly in¬ 
tended for them.” 

Then shifting his side (as a lawyer 
knows how) 

He pleaded again in behalf of the 
Eyes; 

But what were his arguments few 
people know, 

For the court did not think they 
were equally wise. 

So his lordship decreed with a grave 
solemn tone, 

Decisive and clear,without one “if” 
or “but,” 

That, whenever the Nose put his 
spectacles on, 

By day-light or candle-light, Eyes 
should be shut. 

William Cow per. 


Poems for Children 


178 

Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled 
peppers; 

A peck of pickled peppers Peter Piper 
picked; 

If Peter Piper picked a peck of 
pickled peppers, 

Where’s the peck of pickled peppers 
Peter Piper picked ? 


When a Twister a twisting will twist 
him a twist; 

For the twisting of his twist, he three 
times doth in twist; 

But if one of the twines of the twist 
do untwist, 

The twine that untwisteth, untwisteth 
the twine. 

Untwirling the twine that untwisteth 
between, 

He twirls, with the twister, the two in 
a twine. 


Then twice having twisted the twines 
of the twine 

He twisteth the twine he had twined 
in twain. 

The twain that in twining, before in 
the twine, 

As twines were intwisted; he now 
doth untwine; 

’Twixt the twain inter-twisting a 
twine more between, 

He twirling his twister, makes a twist 
of the twine. 


A CANDLE. 

Little Nanny Etticoat, 
In a white petticoat, 
And a red nose; 

The longer she stands 
The shorter she grows. 



PART II 


VI 

The Seasons 


HARK, HARK THE LARK. 

Hark ! hark! the lark at Heaven’s gate 
sings, 

And Phoebus* ’gins arise, 

His steeds to water at those springs 
On chalic’d flowers that lies. 

And winking Mary-buds begin 
To ope their golden eyes; 

With everything that pretty bin: 

My lady sweet, arise; 

Arise, arise. 

William Shakespeare. 


GOOD MORNING. 

Up! quit thy bower, late wears the 
hour, 

Long have the rooks cawed round the 
tower; 

O’er flower and tree loud hums the 
bee, 

And the wild-kid sports merrily:— 

The sun is bright, the skies are clear; 

Wake, lady! wake, and hasten here. 

Up! maiden fair, and bind thy hair, 

And rouse thee in the breezy air; 

The lulling stream that soothed thy 
dream 

* Phoebus—The Sun. 


Is dancing in the sunny beam; 

Waste not these hours, so fresh, so 
gay, 

Leave thy soft couch and haste away. 

Up! time will tell, the morning bell 
Its service-sound has chimed well; 

The aged crone keeps house alone, 

The reapers to the fields are gone. 
Lose not these hours, so cool, so gay, 
Lo! whilst thou sleep’st they haste 
away. 

Joanna Baillie. 

A SPRING LILT. 

Through the silver mist 
Of the blossom-spray 
Trill the orioles: list 
To their joyous lay! 

“What in all the world, in all the 
world,” they say, 

“Is half so sweet, so sweet, is half so 
sweet as May?” 

“June! June! June!” 

Low croon 

The brown bees in the clover. 

‘ 1 Sweet! sweet! sweet! ’ 9 
Repeat 

The robins, nested over. 

Unknown. 



i8o 


Poems for Children 


THE MORNING MIST. 

Look, William, how the morning mists 
Have covered all the scene, 

Nor house nor hill canst thou behold 
Grey wood, or meadow green. 

The distant spire across the vale 
These floating vapours shroud, 
Scarce are the neighbouring poplars 
seen 

Pale shadowed in the cloud. 

But seest thou, William, where the 
mists 

Sweep o’er the southern sky, 

The dim effulgence of the sun 
That lights them as they fly? 

Soon shall that glorious orb of day 
In all his strength arise, 

And roll along his azure way, 
Through clear and cloudless skies. 

Then shall we see across the vale 
The village spire so white, 

And the grey wood and meadows 
green 

Shall live again in light. 

Robert Southey. 

NOONTIDE. 

The shepherd boy lies on the hill 
At noon with upward eye; 

Deep on his gaze and deeper still 
Ascends the clear blue sky. 

You pass him by, and deem perchance 
He lies but half awake, 

And picture in what airy trance 
His soul may sport or ache. 

Full wakeful he, both eye and heart, 
For he a cloud hath seen 
Into that waste of air depart, 

As bark in ocean green. 

John Keble. 


EVENING. 

Oh, Hesperus! thou bringest all good 
things— 

Home to the weary, to the hungry 
cheer, 

To the young bird the parent’s brood¬ 
ing wings, 

The welcome stall to the o’er- 
laboured steer! 

Whate’er of peace about our hearth¬ 
stone clings, 

Whate’er our household gods pro¬ 
tect of dear, 

Are gathered round us bj^ thy look of 
rest; 

Thou bring ’st the child, too, to the 
mother’s breast. 

Soft hour! which wakes the wish and 
melts the heart 

Of those who sail the seas, on the 
first, day 

When they from their sweet friends 
are torn apart 

Or fills with love the pilgrim on his 
way, 

As the far bell of vesper makes him 
start, 

Seeming to weep the dying day’s 
decay; 

Is this a fancy which our reason 
scorns? 

Ah, surely nothing dies but something 
mourns! 

Georye Gordon Byron. 


EVENING SONG. 

Shepherds all, and maidens fair, 
Fold your flocks up, for the air 
’Gins to thicken, and the sun 
Already his great course hath run. 
See the dew-drops how they kiss 
Every little flower that is, 


The Seasons 181 


Hanging on their velvet heads, 

Like a rope of crystal beads: 

See the heavy clouds low-falling 
And bright Hesperus down calling 
The dead Night from under ground; 
At whose rising, mists unsound, 
Damps and vapours fly apace, 
Hovering o’er the wanton face 
Of these pastures, where they come, 
Striking dead both bud and bloom: 
Therefore, from such danger lock 
Every one his loved flock; 

And let your dogs lie loose without, 
Lest the wolf come as a scout 
From the mountain, and, ere day, 
Bear a lamb or kid away; 

Or the crafty thievish fox 
Break upon your simple flocks. 

To secure yourselves from these, 

Be not too secure in ease; 

Let one eye his watches keep, 

Whilst the other eye doth sleep; 

So you shall good shepherds prove, 
And for ever hold the love 
Of our great god. Sweetest slumbers, 
And soft silence, fall in numbers 
On your eyelids! So, farewell! 

Thus I end my evening’s knell. 

John Fletcher. 

NIGHT IN THE DESERT. 

How beautiful is night! 

A dewy freshness fills the silent air; 
No mist obscures, nor cloud, nor speck, 
nor stain, 

Breaks the serene of heaven. 

In full-orb’d glory yonder moon divine 
Rolls through the dark-blue depths. 
Beneath her steady ray 
The desert-circle spreads, 

Like the round ocean, girdled with the 
sky. 

How beautiful is night! 

Robert Southey. 


NIGHT. 

The sun descending in the west, 

The evening star does shine; 

The birds are silent in their nest, 

And I must seek for mine. 

The moon, like a flower, 

In heaven’s high bower, 

With silent delight 

Sits and smiles on the night. 

Farewell, green fields and happy 
groves, 

Where the flocks took delight; 
Where lambs have nibbled, silent 
moves 

The feet of angels bright. 

Unseen they pour blessing, 

And joy without ceasing, 

On each bud and blossom 
And each sleeping bosom. 

They look in every thoughtless nest, 
Where birds are cover’d warm; 
They visit caves of every beast, 

To keep them all from harm. 

If they see any weeping 
That should have been sleeping, 

They pour sleep on their head, 

And sit down by their bed. 

When wolves and tigers howl for prey 
They pitying stand and weep, 
Seeking to drive their thirst away, 
And keep them from the sheep. 

But if they rush dreadful, 

The angels most heedful 
Receive each wild spirit, 

New worlds to inherit. 

And there the lion’s ruddy eyes 
Shall flow with tears of gold, 

And pitying the tender cries, 

And walking round the fold, 
Saying, “Wrath, by his meekness 
And by his health, sickness 
Is driven away 
From our immortal day. 


182 


Poems for Children 


“And now beside thee, bleating lamb, 
I can lie down and sleep; 

Or think on him who bore thy name, 
Graze after thee, and weep. 

For, wash’d in life’s river, 

My bright mane for ever 
Shall shine like the gold 
As I guard o ’er the fold. ’ ’ 

William Blake. 


GOOD-NIGHT. 

The sun is down, and time gone by, 
The stars are twinkling in the sky, 

Nor torch nor taper longer may 
Eke out a blithe but stinted day; 

The hours have passed with stealthy 
flight, 

We needs must part: good-night, good¬ 
night ! 

The laclv in her curtained bed, 

The herdsman in his wattled shed, 

The clansmen in the heathered hall 
Sweet sleep be with you, one and all! 
We part in hopes of days as bright 
As this gone by: goocl-night, good¬ 
night ! 

Sweet sleep be with us, one and all! 
And if upon its stillness fall 
The visions of a busy brain, 

We’ll have our pleasures o’er again, 
To warm the heart, to charm the sight, 
day dreams to all! goocl-night, good¬ 
night ! 

Joanna Baillie. 

HYMN TO THE NIGHT. 

I heard the trailing garments of the 
Night 

Sweep through the marble halls! 

I saw her sable skirts all fringed with 
light 

From the celestial walls! 


I felt her presence, by its spell of 
might, 

Stoop o’er me from above; 

The calm majestic presence of the 
Night, 

As of the one I love. 

I hear the sounds of sorrow and 
delight, 

The manifold, soft chimes, 

That fill the haunted chambers of the 
Night, 

Like some old poet’s rhymes. 

From the cool cisterns of the midnight 
air 

My spirit drank repose; 

The fountain of perpetual peace flows 
there,— 

From those deep cisterns flows. 

0 holy Night! from thee I learn to 
bear 

What man has borne before! 

Thou layest thy finger on the lips of 
Care, 

And they complain no more. 

Peace! Peace! Orestes-like I breathe 
this prayer! 

Descend with broad-winged flight, 

The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, 
the most fair, 

The best-loved, Night! 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 

HYMN TO THE NORTH STAR. 

The sad and solemn Night 

Has yet her multitude of cheerful 
fires; 

The glorious host of light 

Walk the dark hemisphere till she 
retires; 

All through her silent watches, gliding 
slow, 

Her constellations come, and climb the 
heavens, and go. 


The Seasons 


Day, too, hath many a star 

To grace his gorgeous reign, as 
bright as they: 

Through the blue fields afar, 

Unseen, they follow in his flaming 
way; 

Many a bright lingerer, as the eve 
grows dim, 

Tells what a radiant troop arose and 
set with him. 

And thou dost see them rise, 

Star of the Pole! and thou dost see 
them set. 

Alone in thy cold skies, 

Thou keep ’st thy old, unmoving 
station yet, 

Nor join’st the dances of that glitter¬ 
ing train, 

Nor dipp’st thy virgin orb in the blue 
western main. 

There, at morn’s rosy birth, 

Thou lookest meekly through the 
kindling air, 

And eve, that round the earth 

Chases the day, beholds thee watch¬ 
ing there; 

There noontide finds thee, and the 
hour that calls 

The shapes of polar flame to scale 
heaven’s azure walls. 

Alike, beneath thine eye, 

The deeds of darkness and of light 
are done; 

High towards the starlit sky 

Towns blaze—the smoke of battle 
blots the sun— 

The nightstorm on a thousand hills is 
loud— 

And the strong wind of day doth min¬ 
gle sea and cloud. 

On thy unaltering blaze 

The half-wrecked mariner, his com¬ 
pass lost, 


'83 

Fixes his steady gaze, 

And steers, undoubting, to the 
friendly coast: 

And they who stray in perilous wastes 
by night, 

Are glad when thou dost shine to 
guide their footsteps right. 

And, therefore, bards of old, 

Sages, and hermits of the solemn 
wood, 

Did in thy beams behold 

A beauteous type of that unchang¬ 
ing good, 

That bright eternal beacon, by whose 
ray 

The voyager of time should shape his 
heedful way. 

William Cullen Bryant. 

THE STARS. 

They glide upon their endless way, 
For ever calm, for ever bright, 

No blind hurry, no delay, 

Mark the Daughters of the Night: 

They follow in the track of Day, 

In divine delight 

And oh! how still beneath the stars 
The once wild, noisy Earth doth lie; 

As though she now forsook her jars, 
And caught the quiet of the sky. 

Pride sleeps; and Love (with all his 
scars) 

In smiling dreams doth lie. 

Shine on, sweet orbed souls, for aye, 
For ever calm, for ever bright: 

We ask not whither lies your way, 

Nor whence ye came, nor what your 
light. 

Be, still,—a dream throughout the 
day, 

A blessing through the night! 

Barry Cormvall. 


1 84 


Poems for Children 


THE LIGHT OF STARS. 

The night is come, but not too soon; 
And sinking silently, 

All silently, the little moon 
Drops down behind the sky. 

There is no light in earth or heaven, 
But the cold light of stars; 

And the first watch of night is given 
To the red planet Mars. 

Is it the tender star of love? 

The star of love and dreams ? 

O no! from that blue tent above, 

A hero’s armour gleams. 

And earnest thoughts within me rise, 
When I behold afar, 

Suspended in the evening skies, 

The shield of that red star. 

O star of strength! I see thee stand 
And smile upon my pain; 

Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, 
And I am strong again. 

Within my breast there is no light, 
But the cold light of stars; 

I give the first watch of the night 
To the red planet Mars. 

The star of the unconquered will, 

He rises in my breast, 

Serene, and resolute, and still, 

And calm, and self-possessed. 

And thou, too, whosoe ’er thou art 
That readest this brief psalm, 

As one by one thy hopes depart, 

Be resolute and calm. 

0 , fear not, in a world like this, 

And thou shalt, know ere long, 

Know how sublime a thing it is, 

To suffer and be strong. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 


THE GLADNESS OF NATURE. 

Is this a time to be cloudy and sad, 

When our mother Nature laughs 
around, 

And even the deep blue heavens look 
glad, 

And gladness breathes from the 
blossoming ground? 

There are notes of joy from the hang- 
bird and wren, 

And the gossip of swallows through 
all the sky; 

The ground-squirrel gaily chirps by 
his den, 

And the wilding bee hums merrily 
by. 

The clouds are at play in the azure 
space, 

And their shadows at play on the 
bright green vale, 

And here they stretch to the frolic 
chase, 

And there they roll on the easy 
gale. 

There’s a dance of leaves in that aspen 
bower, 

There’s a titter of winds in that 
beechen tree, 

There’s a smile on the fruit, and a 
smile on the flower, 

And a laugh from the brook that 
runs to the sea. 

And look at the broad-faced sun, how 
he smiles 

On the dewy earth that smiles in his 
ray, 

O11 the leaping waters and gay young 
isles; 

Ay, look, and he’ll smile thy gloom 
away. 

William Cullen Bryant. 


The Seasons 


>85 


JOY OF LIFE. 

The sun is careering in glory and 
might, 

’Mid the deep blue sky and the clouds 
so bright; 

The billow is tossing its foam on high, 

And the summer breezes go lightly 

by; 

The air and the water dance, glitter, 
and play— 

And why should not I be as merry as 
they ? 

The linnet is singing the wild wood 
through, 

The fawn’s bounding footsteps skim 
over the dew, 

The butterfly flits round the blossom¬ 
ing tree, 

And the cowslip and blue-bell are bent 
by the bee: 

All the creatures that dwell in the 
forest are gay, 

And why should not I be as meny as 
they? 

Mary Russell Mitford . 


THE CLOUD. 

I bring fresh showers for the thirst¬ 
ing flowers, 

From the seas and the streams; 

I bear light shades for the leaves when 
laid 

In their noon-day dreams; 

From my wings are shaken the dews 
that waken 

The sweet birds every one, 

When rocked to rest on their mother’s 
breast, 

As she dances in the sun. 

I wield the flail of the lashing hail, 

And whiten the green plains under; 

And then again I dissolve it in rain, 

And laugh as 1 pass in thunder. 


I sift the snow on the mountains be¬ 
low, 

And their great pines groan aghast; 

And all the night ’tis my pillow white, 

While I sleep in the arms of the 
blast, 

Sublime on the towers of my skyey 
bowers, 

Lightning, my pilot, sits; 

In a cavern under is fettered the 
thunder— 

It struggles and howls by fits. 

Over earth and ocean, with gentle 
motion, 

This pilot is guiding me, 

Lured by the love of the genii that 
move 

In the depths of the purple sea; 

Over the rills, and the crags, and the 
hills, 

Over the lakes and the plains, 

Wherever he dream, under mountain 
or stream, 

The spirit he loves remains; 

And I, all the while, bask in heaven’s 
blue smile, 

Whilst he is dissolving in rains. 


The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor 
eyes, 

And his burning plumes outspread 
Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, 
When the morning-star shines dead; 
As on the jag of a mountain crag, 
Which an earthquake rocks and 
swings, 

An eagle, alit, one moment may sit, 

In the light of its golden wings. 
And when sunset may breathe, from 
the lit sea beneath, 

Its ardours of rest and love, 

And the crimson pall of eve may fall 
From the depths of heaven above, 
With wings folded I rest, on mine airy 
nest, 

As still as a brooding dove. 


Poems for Children 


186 

That orbed maiden, with white fire 
laden, 

Whom mortals call the moon, 

Glides glimmering o’er my fleece-like 
floor, 

By the midnight breezes strewn; 
And wherever the beat of her unseen 
feet, 

Which only the angels hear, 

May have broken the woof of my 
tent’s thin roof, 

The stars peep behind her and peer! 
And I laugh to see them whirl and 
flee, 

Like a swarm of golden bees, 

When I widen the rent in my wind- 
built tent, 

Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, 
Like strips of the sky fallen through 
me on high, 

Are each paved with the moon and 
these. 

I bind the sun’s throne with a burning 
zone, 

And the moon’s with a girdle of 
pearl; 

The volcanoes are dim, and the stars 
reel and swim, 

When the whirlwinds my banners 
unfurl. 

From cape to cape, with a bridge-like 
shape 

Over a torrent sea, 

Sunbeam proof, I hang like a roof, 

The mountains its columns be. 

The triumphal arch through which I 
march 

With hurricane, fire, and snow, 
When the powers of the air are 
chained to my chair, 

Is the million-coloured bow; 

The sphere-fire above its soft colours 
wove, 

While the moist air was laughing 
below. 


I am the daughter of earth and water, 
And the nursling of the sky; 

I pass through the pores of the ocean 
and shores; 

I change, but I cannot die: 

For, after the rain, when, with never 
a stain, 

The pavilion of heaven is bare, 

And the winds and sunbeams, with 
their convex gleams, 

Build up the blue dome of air, 

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, 
And out of the caverns of rain, 

Like a child from the womb, like a 
ghost from the tomb, 

I arise and unbuild it again. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 

THE WATER! THE WATER! 

The Water! the Water! 

The joyous brook for me, 

That tuneth through the quiet night 
Its ever-living glee. 

The Water! the Water! 

That sleepless, merry heart, 

Which gurgles on unstintedly, 

And loveth to impart 
To all around it, some small measure 
Of its own most perfect pleasure. 

The Water! the Water! 

The gentle stream for me, 

That gushes from the old grey stone 
Beside the alder-tree. 

The Water! the Water! 

That ever-bubbling spring 
I loved and look’d on while a child, 

In deepest wondering,— 

And ask’d it whence it came and went, 
And when its treasures would be 
spent. 

The Water! the Water! 

The merry wanton brook 
That bent itself to pleasure me, 

Like mine old shepherd crook. 



© G. W. J. & CO. 

Leaping and flashing, 

From morn till night! 

THE FOUNTAIN 







































































The Seasons 


.87 


The Water! the Water! 

That sang so sweet at noon, 

And sweeter still all night, to win 
Smiles from the pale, proud moon, 
And from the little fairy faces 
That gleam in heaven’s remotest 
places. 

'William Motherwell. 


THE FOUNTAIN. 

Into the sunshine, 

Full of the light, 
Leaping and flashing 
From morn till night! 

Into the moonlight, 

Whiter than snow, 
Waving so flower-like 
When the winds blow! 

Into the starlight, 

Rushing in spray, 
Happy at midnight, 
Happy by day! 

Ever in motion, 

Blithesome and cheery, 
Still climbing heavenward, 
Never aweary; 

Glad of all weathers, 

Still seeming best, 
Upward or downward 
Motion thy rest; 


Glorious fountain! 

Let my heart be 
Fresh, changeful, constant, 
Upward like thee! 

James Russell Lowell. 


THE CATARACT OF LODORE. 

How does the water come down at 
Lodore ? 

My little boy asked me thus, once 
on a time. 

Moreover, he task’d me to tell him 
in rhyme; 

Anon at the word there first came one 
daughter, 

And then came another to second 
and third 

The request of their brother, and hear 
how the water 

Comes down at Lodore, with its rush 
and its roar, 

As many a time they had seen it 
before. 

So I told them in rhyme, for of 
rhymes I had store. 

And ’twas in my vocation that thus I 
should sing, 

Because I was laureate to them and 
the King. 


From its sources which well 
In the tarn on the fell, 

From its fountain in the moun¬ 
tain, 

Its rills and its gills, 

Through moss and through 
brake, 

It runs and it creeps, 

For a while till it sleeps, 

In its own little lake, 

And thence at departing, 
Awakening and starting, 

It runs through the reeds, 

And away it proceeds, 


Full of a nature 
Nothing can tame, 
Changed every moment, 
Ever the same; 

Ceaseless aspiring, 
Ceaseless content, 
Darkness or sunshine 
Thy element; 


188 


Poems for Children 


Through meadow and glade, 

In sun and in shade, 

And through the wood shelter, 
Among crags in its flurry, 
Helter-skelter—hurry-skurry. 

How does the water come down at 
Lodore ? 

Here it comes sparkling, 

And there it lies darkling; 
Here smoking and frothing, 

Its tumult and wrath in, 

It hastens along, conflicting, and 
strong, 

Now striking and raging, 

As if a war waging, 

Its caverns and rocks among. 

Rising and leaping, 

Sinking and creeping, 

Swelling and flinging, 
Showering and springing, 
Eddying and whisking, 
Spouting and frisking, 

Twining and twisting, 

Around and around, 
Collecting, disjecting, 

With endless rebound; 
Smiting and fighting, 

A sight to delight in; 
Confounding, astounding, 
Dizzying and deafening the ear 
with its sound. 

Receding and speeding, 

And shocking and rocking, 
And darting and parting, 

And threading and spreading, 
And whizzing and hissing, 

And dripping and skipping, 
And whitening and brighten¬ 
ing, 

And quivering and shivering, 
And hitting and splitting, 

And shining and twining, 

And rattling and battling, 

And shaking and quaking, 


And pouring and roaring, 
And waving and raving, 

And tossing and crossing, 

And flowing and growing, 
And running and stunning, 
And hurrying and skurrying, 
And glittering and frittering, 
And gathering and feathering, 
And dinning and spinning, 
And foaming and roaming, 
And dropping and hopping, 
And working and jerking, 

And heaving and cleaving, 
And thundering and flounder¬ 
ing ; 

And falling and crawling and sprawl¬ 
ing, 

And driving and riving and striving, 

And sprinkling and twinkling and 
wrinkling, 

And sounding and bounding and 

rounding, 

And bubbling and troubling and 

doubling, 

Dividing and gliding and sliding, 

And grumbling and rumbling and 

tumbling, 

And clattering and battering and 

shattering; 

And gleaming and steaming and 

streaming and beaming, 

And rushing and flushing and brush¬ 
ing and gushing, 

And flapping and rapping and clap¬ 
ping and slapping, 

And curling and whirling and purling 
and twirling, 

Retreating and beating and meeting 
and sheeting, 

Delaying and straying and playing 
and spraying, 

Advancing and prancing and glanc¬ 
ing and dancing, 

Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and 
boiling, 


189 


The Seasons 


And thumping and flumping and 
bumping and jumping, 

And dashing and flashing and splash¬ 
ing and clashing,— 

And so never ending, but always 
descending, 

Sounds and motions for ever and ever 
are blending, 

All at once and all o’er, with a mighty 
uproar— 

And this way the water comes down 
at Lodore. 

Robert Southey. 


THE BROOK. 

I come from haunts of coot and hern, 
I make a sudden sally, 

And sparkle out among the fern, 

To bicker down a valley. 

By thirty hills I hurry down, 

Or slip between the ridges, 

By twenty thorps, a little town, 

And half a hundred bridges. 

Till last by Philip’s farm I flow 
To join the brimming river, 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on for ever. 

I chatter over stony ways, 

In little sharps and trebles, 

I bubble into eddying bays, 

I babble on the pebbles. 

With many a curve my banks I fret 
By many a field and fallow, 

And many a fairy foreland set 
With willow-weed and mallow. 

I chatter, chatter, as I flow 
To join the brimming river, 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on for ever. 


I wind about, and in and out, 

With here a blossom sailing, 

And here and there a lusty trout, 
And here and there a grayling. 

And here and there a foamy flake 
Upon me, as I travel 

With many a silvery waterbreak 
Above the gravel, 

And draw them all along, and flow 
To join the brimming river, 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on for ever. 

I steal by lawns and grassy plots, 

I slide by hazel covers; 

I move the sweet forget-me-nots 
That grow for happy lovers. 

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, 
Among my skimming swallows; 

I make the netted sunbeam dance 
Against my sandy shallows. 

I murmur under moon and stars 
In brambly wildernesses; 

I linger by my shingly bars; 

I loiter round my cresses; 

And out again I curve and flow 
To join the brimming river, 

For men may come and men may go, 
But I go on for ever. 

Alfred Tennyson. 


SIGNS OF RAIN. 

The hollow winds begin to blow, 

The clouds look black, the glass is 
low, 

The soot falls down, the spaniels sleep, 
The spiders from their cobwebs peep: 
Last night the sun went pale to bed, 
The moon in halos hid her head: 


Poems for Children 


190 

The boding shepherd heaves a sigh, 
For, see, a rainbow spans the sky; 

The walls are damp, the ditches smell, 
Closed is the pink-eyed pimpernel. 
Hark how the chairs and tables crack! 
Old Betty’s joints are on the rack; 
Loud quack the ducks, the peacocks 
cry, 

The distant hills are seeming nigh. 
How restless are the snorting swine! 
The busy flies disturb the kine; 

Low o’er the grass the swallow wings, 
The cricket, too, how sharp he sings; 
Puss on the hearth, with velvet paws, 
Sits wiping o’er her whiskered jaws. 
Through the clear stream the fishes 
rise, 

And nimbly catch the incautious flies. 
The glow-worms, numerous and 
bright, 

Illumed the dewy dell last night. 

At dusk the squalid toad was seen, 
Hopping and crawling o’er the green ; 
The whirling wind the dust obeys, 
And in the rapid eddy plays; 

The frog has changed his yellow vest, 
And in a russet coat is dressed. 
Though June, the air is cold and still, 
The mellow blackbird’s voice is shrill. 
My dog, so altered in his taste, 

Quits mutton-bones on grass to feast; 
And see yon rooks, how odd their 
flight, 

They imitate the gliding kite, 

And seem precipitate to fall, 

As if they felt the piercing ball. 

’Twill surely rain I see with sorrow, 
Our jaunt must be put off to-morrow. 

Edward Jenner. 

RAIN IN SUMMER. 

How beautiful is the rain! 

After the dust and heat, 

In the broad and fiery street, 

In the narrow lane, 

How beautiful is the rain! 


How it clatters along the roofs, 

Like the tramp of hoofs! 

How it gushes and struggles out 
From the throat of the overflowing 
spout! 

Across the window pane 
It pours and pours; 

And swift and wide, 

With a muddy tide, 

Like a river down the gutter roars 
The rain, the welcome rain! 

The sick man from his chamber looks 
At the twisted brooks; 

He can feel the cool 
Breath of each little pool; 

His fevered brain 
Grows calm again, 

And he breathes a blessing on the rain. 

From the neighbouring school 
Come the boys, 

With more than their wonted noise 
And commotion; 

And down the wet streets 
Sail their mimic fleets, 

Till the treacherous pool 
Engulfs them in its whirling 
And turbulent ocean. 

In the country on every side, 

Where far and wide, 

Like a leopard’s tawny and spotted 
hide 

Stretches the plain, 

To the dry grass and the drier grain 
How welcome is the rain! 

In the furrowed land 

The toilsome and patient oxen stand; 

Lifting the yoke-encumbered head, 

With their dilated nostrils spread, 

They silently inhale 

The clover-scented gale, 


* 9 ' 


The Seasons 


And the vapours that arise 
From the well-watered and smoking 
soil. 

For this rest in the furrow after toil 
Their large and lustrous eyes 
Seem to thank the Lord, 

More than man’s spoken word. 

Near at hand, 

From under the sheltering trees, 

The farmer sees 

His pastures and his fields of grain, 

As they bend their tops 

To the numberless beating drops 

Of the incessant rain, 

He counts it as no sin 

That he sees therein 

Only his own thrift and gain. 

# * * 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 

A WEATHER RULE. 

If the evening’s red and the morning 
gray, 

It is the sign of a bonny day; 

If the evening’s gray and the morn¬ 
ing’s red, 

The lamb and the ewe will go wet to 
bed. 

Unknown. 

SUNSHINE AFTER A SHOWER. 

Ever after summer shower, 

When the bright sun’s returning 
power 

With laughing beam has chased the 
storm, 

And cheer’d reviving Nature’s form, 
By sweet-briar hedges bathed in dew, 
Let me my wholesome path pursue; 
There, issuing forth, the frequent 
snail 

Wears the daub way with slimy trail; 
While as I walk from pearled bush 
The sunny sparkling drop I brush; 


And all the landscape fair I view 
Clad in robe of fresher hue; 

And so loud the blackbird sings, 

That far and near the valley rings. 
From shelter deep of shaggy rock 
The shepherd drives his joyful flock; 
From bowering beech the mower 
blithe 

With new-born vigour grasps the 
scythe; 

While o’er the smooth unbounded 
meads 

His last faint gleam the rainbow 
spreads. 

Thomas Wart on. 

A FINE DAY. 

Clear had the day been from the 
dawn, 

All checquer’d was the sky, 

Thin clouds like scarfs of cobweb 
lawn 

Veil’d heaven’s most glorious eye. 

The wind had no more strength than 
this, 

That leisurely it blew, 

To make one leaf the next to kiss 
That closely by it grew. 

Michael Drayton. 

THE SUN. 

Somewhere it is always light; 

For when ’tis morning here, 

In some far distant land ’tis night, 
And the bright moon shines there. 

When you’re undressed and going to 
bed, 

They are just rising there, 

And morning on the hills doth spread 
When it is evening here. 

And other distant lands there be, 
Where it is always night; 

For weeks and weeks they never see 
The sun, nor have they light. 


Poems for Children 


192 

For it is dark both night and day, 
But what’s as wondrous quite, 

The darkness it doth pass away, 

And then for weeks ’tis light. 

Yes, while you sleep the sun shines 
bright, 

The sky is blue and clear; 

For weeks and weeks there is no night, 
But always daylight there. 

Thomas Miller. 


THE BROOK IN WINTER. 

Down swept the chill wind from the 
mountain peak, 

From the snow five thousand sum¬ 
mers old; 

On open wold and hill-top bleak 
It had gathered all the cold, 

And whirled it like sleet on the wan¬ 
derer ’s cheek; 

tt carried a shiver everywhere 

From the unleafed boughs and pas¬ 
tures bare; 

The little brook heard it and built a 
roof 

’Neath which he could house him, 
winter-proof; 

All night by the white stars’ frosty 
gleams 

He groined his arches and matched 
his beams; 

Slender and clear were His crystal 
spars 

As the lashes of light that trim the 
stars; 

He sculptured every summer delight 

In his halls and chambers out of 
sight; 

Sometimes his tinkling waters slipt 

Down through a frost-leaved forest 
crypt, 

Long, sparkling aisles of steel¬ 
stemmed trees 


Bending to counterfeit a breeze ; 

Sometimes the roof no fretwork knew 

But silvery mosses that downward 
grew; 

Sometimes it was carved in sharp re¬ 
lief 

With quaint arabesques of ice-fern 
leaf; 

Sometimes it was simply smooth and 
clear 

For the gladness of heaven to shine 
through, and here 

He had caught the nodding bulrush- 
tops 

And hung them thickly with diamond 
drops, 

That crystalled the beams of moon 
and sun, 

And made a star of every one: 

No mortal builder’s most rare device 

Could match this winter palace of ice; 

’Twas as if every image that mirrored 
lay 

In his depths serene through the 
summer day, 

Each flitting shadow of earth and sky, 
Lest the happy model should be 
lost, 

Had been mimicked in fairy masonry 
By the elfin builders of the frost. 

James Russell Lowell. 


“ MY HEART LEAPS UP WHEN 
I BEHOLD/’ 

My heart leaps up when I behold 
A rainbow in the sky; 

So was it when my life began; 

So it is now I am a man; 

So be it when I shall grow old, 

Or let me die! 

The Child is father of the Man; 

And 1 could wish my days to be 
Bound each to each by natural piety. 

William Wordsworth. 


The Seasons 


THE WHIRL-BLAST. 

A whirl-blast from behind the hill 
Rush’d o’er the woods with startling 
sound; 

Then—all at once the air was still, 
And showers of hailstones patter’d 
round. 

Where leafless oaks tower’d high 
above, 

I sat within an undergrove 
Of tallest hollies, tall and green; 

A fairer bower was never seen. 

Prom year to year the spacious floor 
With wither’d leaves is cover’d o’er, 
And all the year the bower is green; 
But see! where’er the hailstones drop 
The wither’d leaves all skip and hop; 
There’s not a breeze—no breath of 
air— 

Yet here, and there, and everywhere 
Along the floor, beneath the shade 
By those embowering hollies made, 
The leaves in myriads jump and 
spring, 

As if with pipes and music rare 
Some Robin Goodfellow were there, 
And all those leaves, in festive glee, 
Were dancing to the minstrelsy. 

William Wordsworth. 


THE SNOWSTORM. 

Announced by all the trumpets of 
the sky, 

Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er 
the fields, 

Seems nowhere to alight; the whited 
air 

Hides hills and woods, the river, and 
the heaven, 

And veils the farmhouse at the 
garden’s end. 

The sledge and traveller stopped, the 
courier’s feet 


] 93 

Delayed, all friends shut out, the 
house-mates sit 

Around the radiant fireplace, inclosed 

In a tumultuous privacy of storm. 

Come, see the north wind’s masonry. 

Out of an unseen quarry evermore 

Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer 

Curves his white bastions with pro¬ 
jected roof 

Round every windward stake, or tree, 
or door. 

Speeding, the myriad-handed, flis wild 
work 

So fanciful, so savage, naught cares 
he 

For number or proportion. Mock- 

ingly, 

On coop or kennel he hangs Parian 
wreaths; 

A swan-like form invests the hidden 
thorn; 

Fills up the farmer’s lane from wall 
to wall, 

Maugre the farmer’s sighs; and, at 
the gate, 

A tapering turret overtops the work: 

And when his hours are numbered, 
and the world 

Is all his own, retiring, as he were not, 

Leaves, when the sun appears, as¬ 
tonished Art 

To mimic in slow structures, stone by 
stone, 

Built in an age, the mad wind’s night- 
work, 

The frolic architecture of the snow. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 

UP IN THE MORNING EARLY. 

Up in the morning’s no for me, 

Up in the morning early; 

When a’ the hills are cover’d wi’ 
snaw, 

I’m sure it’s winter fairly. 


194 


Poems for Children 


Cauld blaws the wind frae east to 
west, 

The drift is driving sairly; 

Sae loud and shrill’s I hear the blast, 
I’m sure it’s winter fairly. 

The birds sit cluttering in the thorn, 
A’ day they fare but sparely; 

And lang’s the night frae e’en to 
morn; 

I’m sure it’s winter fairly. 

Robert Burns. 


THE MONTHS. 

January brings the snow, 

Makes our feet and fingers glow. 

February brings the rain, 

Thaws the frozen lake again. 

March brings breezes sharp and chill, 
Shakes the dancing daffodil. 

April brings the primrose sweet, 
Scatters daisies at our feet. 

May brings flocks of pretty lambs, 
Sporting round their fleecy dams. 

June brings tulips, lilies, roses, 

Fills the children’s hands with posies. 

Hot July brings thunder-showers, 
Apricots, and gilly-flowers. 

August brings the sheaves of corn; 
Then the harvest home is borne. 

Warm September brings the fruit; 
Sportsmen then begin to shoot. 

Brown October brings the pheasant, 
Then to gather nuts is pleasant. 


Dull November brings the blast— 
Hark! the leaves are whirling fast. 

Cold December brings the sleet, 
Blazing fire, and Christmas treat. 

Sara Coleridge. 


AN APPLE ORCHARD IN THE 
SPRING. 

Have you seen an apple orchard in 
the spring? 

In the spring? 

An English apple orchard in the 
spring ? 

When the spreading trees are hoary 
With their wealth of promised 
glory, 

And the mavis sings its story, 

In the spring. 

Have you plucked the apple blossoms 
in the spring ? 

In the spring? 

And caught their subtle odours in the 
spring ? 

Pink buds pouting at the light, 
Crumpled petals baby white, 

Just to touch them a delight— 

In the spring. 

Have you walked beneath the blossoms 
in the spring? 

In the spring? 

Beneath the apple blossoms in the 
spring? 

When the pink cascades are falling, 
And the silver brooklets brawling, 
And the cuckoo bird soft calling, 

In the spring. 

If you have not, then you know not, 
in the spring, 

In the spring, 


'95 


The Seasons 


Half the colour, beauty, wonder of the 
spring, 

No sweet sight can I remember 
Half so precious, half so tender, 

As the apple blossoms render 

In the spring. 

William Martin. 

SPRING. 

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year’s 
pleasant king; 

Then blooms each thing, then maids 
dance in a ring; 

Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds 
do sing, 

Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! 

The palm and the may make country 
houses gay, 

Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds 
pipe all day, 

And we hear aye birds tune this merry 
lay, 

Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! 

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies 
kiss our feet, 

Young lovers meet, old wives a-sun- 
ning sit; 

In every street these tunes our ears do 
greet, 

Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo! 

Spring! the sweet Spring! 

Thomas Nashe. 


THE PROCESSION OF THE 
FLOWERS. 

First came the primrose, 

On the bank high, 

Like a maiden looking forth 
From the window of a tower 
When the battle rolls below, 

So look’d she, 

And saw the storms go by. 


Then came the wind-flower 
In the valley left behind, 

As a wounded maiden, pale 
With purple streaks of woe, 

When the battle has roll’d by 
Wanders to and fro, 

So totter’d she, 

Dishevell’d in the wind. 

Then came the daisies, 

On the first of May, 

Like a banner’d show’s advance 
While the crowd runs by the way, 
With ten thousand flowers about them 
They came trooping through the 
fields. 


As a happy people come, 

So came they, 

As a happy people come 
When the war has roll’d away, 

With dance and tabor, pipe and drum, 
And all make holiday. 

Then came the cowslip, 

Like a dancer in the fair, 

She spread her little mat of green, 
And on it danced she. 

With a fillet bound about her brow, 
A fillet round her happy brow, 

A golden fillet round lier brow, 

And rubies in her hair. 

Sydney Dobell. 


NOW THAT WINTER’S GONE. 

Now that the winter’s gone, the earth 
hath lost 

Her snow-white robes; and no more 
the frost 

Candies the grass, or casts an icy 
cream 

Upon the silver lake or crystal stream; 


Poems for Children 


196 

But the warm thaws the benumbed 
earth, 

And makes it tender; gives a sacred 
birth 

To the dead swallow; wakes in hollow 
tree 

The drowsy cuckoo and the humble- 
bee. 

Now do a choir of chirping minstrels 
bring 

In triumph to the world, the youthful 
Spring: 

The valleys, hills, and woods, in rich 
array, 

Welcome the coming of the long’d-for 
May. 

Thomas Carew. 


MARCH. 

The stormy March is come at last, 
With wind, and cloud, and chang¬ 
ing skies; 

I hear the rushing of the blast 

That through the snowy valley 
flies. 

Ah, passing few are they who speak, 
Wild, stormy month, in praise of 
thee; 

Yet though thy winds are loud and 
bleak, 

Thou art a welcome month to me. 

For thou to northern lands, again 
The glad and glorious sun dost 
bring; 

And thou hast joined the gentle train, 
And wear’st the gentle name of 
Spring. 

Then sing aloud the gushing rills 
In joy that they again are free, 

And, brightly leaping down the hills, 
Renew their journey to the sea. 

# * * # # 


Thou bring’st the hope of those calm 
skies, 

And that soft time of sunny 
showers, 

When the wide bloom, on earth that 
lies, 

Seems of a brighter world than ours. 

William Cullen Bryant. 


SPRING. 

Sound the flute! 

Now it’s mute. 

Birds delight 
Day and night; 

Nightingale 
In the dale, 

Lark in sky 
Merrily 

Merrily, merrily, to welcome in the 
year. 

Little boy, 

Full of joy; 

Little girl, 

Sweet and small; 

Cock does crow, 

So do you. 

Merry voice, 

Infant noise, 

Merrily, merrily, to welcome in the 
year. 

Little lamb, 

Here I am; 

Come and lick 
My white neck; 

Let me pull 
Your soft wool; 

Let me kiss 
Your soft face: 

Merrily, merrily, we welcome in the 
year. 


William Blake. 


>97 


The Seasons 


WRITTEN IN MARCH. 

The cock is crowing, 

The stream is flowing, 

The small birds twitter, 

The lake doth glitter, 

The green field sleeps in the sun: 

The oldest and youngest 
Are at work with the strongest: 

The cattle are grazing, 

Their heads never raising, 

There are forty feeding like one! 

Like an army defeated, 

The snow hath retreated, 

And now doth fare ill 
On the top of the bare hill; 

The ploughboy is whooping—anon— 
anon: 

There’s joy in the mountains, 

There’s life in the fountains; 

Small clouds are sailing, 

Blue sky prevailing, 

The rain is over and gone! 

William Wordsworth. 

THE SPRING WALK. 

We had a pleasant walk to-day, 

Over the meadows and far away, 
Across the bridge by the water-mill, 
By the woodside, and up the hill; 

And if you listen to what I say, 

I ’ll tell you what we saw to-day. 

Amid a hedge, where the first leaves 
Were peeping from their sheaths so 
shy, 

We saw four eggs within a nest, 

And they were blue as the summer’s 
sky. 

An elder-branch dipp’d in the brook, 
We wondered why it moved and 
found 

A silken-hair’d, smooth water-rat 
Nibbling and swimming round and 
round. 


Where daisies open’d to the sun, 

In a broad meadow, green and 
white, 

The lambs were racing eagerly— 

We never saw a prettier sight. 

We saw upon the shady banks, 

Long rows of golden flowers shine, 
And first mistook for buttercups, 

The star-shaped yellow celandine. 

Anemones and primroses, 

And the blue violets of spring, 

We found whilst listening by a hedge 
To hear a merry ploughman sing. 

And from the earth the plough turn’d 
up 

There came a sweet refreshing 
smell, 

Such as the lily of the vale 

Sends forth from many a woodland 
dell. 

We saw the yellow wall-flower wave 
Upon a mouldering castle wall, 
And then we watch’d the busy rooks 
Among the ancient elm-trees tall. 

And leaning from the old stone 
bridge, 

Below we saw our shadows lie, 

And through the gloomy arches 
watch’d 

The swift and fearless swallows fly. 

We heard the speckle-breasted lark 
As it sang somewhere out of sight, 
And we tried to find it, but the sky 
Was fill’d with clouds of dazzling 
light. 

We saw young rabbits near the wood, 
And heard a pheasant’s wing go 
“ whirr 

And then we saw a squirrel leap 
From an old oak-tree to a fir. 


Poems for Children 


198 

We came back by the village fields, 

A pleasant walk it was across ’em, 

For all behind the houses lay 

The orchards red and white with 
blossom. 

Were I to tell you all we saw, 

I’m sure that it would take me 
hours ; 

For the whole landscape was alive 
With bees, and birds, and buds and 
flowers. 

Thomas Miller. 


THE NEW MOON. 

When, as the garish day is done, 
Heaven burns with the descended sun, 
’Tis passing sweet to mark, 

Amid the flush of crimson light, 

The new moon’s modest bow grow 
bright, 

As earth and sky grow dark. 

Few are the hearts too cold to feel 

A thrill of gladness o’er them steal 

When first the wandering eye 

Sees faintly, in the evening blaze, 

That glimmering curve of tender rays 

Just planted in the sky. 

# # # # # 

William Cullen Bryant. 


SONG ON A MAY MORNING. 

Now the bright morning star, Day’s 
harbinger, 

Comes dancing from the East, and 
leads with her 

The flowery May, who from her green 
lap throws 

The yellow cowslip and the pale prim¬ 
rose. 

Hail, Bounteous May, that doth in¬ 
spire 

Mirth, and youth, and warm desire; 


Woods and groves are of thy dressing, 
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing; 
Thus we salute thee with our early 
song, 

And welcome thee, and wish thee long. 

John Milton. 


A SUMMER INVOCATION. 

0, gentle, gentle summer rain, 

Let not the silver lily pine, 

The drooping lily pine in vain 

To feel that dewy touch of thine— 
To drink thy freshness once again, 

0, gentle, gentle summer rain! 

In heat the landscape quivering lies; 

The cattle pant beneath the tree; 
Through parching air and purple skies 
The earth looks up in vain, for thee ; 
For thee—for thee, it looks in vain, 

0, gentle, gentle summer rain! 

Come, thou, and brim the meadow 
streams, 

And soften all the hills with mist, 
O falling dew! from burning dreams 
By thee shall herb and flower be 
kissed; 

And earth shall bless thee yet again, 
0, gentle, gentle summer rain! 

William Cox Bennett. 

AUTUMN. 

A Dirge. 

The warm sun is failing, the bleak 
wind is wailing, 

The bare boughs are sighing, the pale 
flowers are dying; 

And the year 

On the earth her death-bed, in a 
shroud of leaves dead, 

Is lying. 


i 9 9 


The Seasons 


Come, Months, come away, 

From November to May, 

In your saddest array,— 

Follow the bier 
Of the dead cold year, 

And like dim shadows watch by her 
sepulchre. 

The chill rain is falling, the nipt 
worm is crawling, 

The rivers are swelling, the thunder is 
knelling, 

For the year; 

The blithe swallows are flown, and the 
lizards each gone 

To his dwelling. 

Come, Months, come away; 

Put on white, black, and gray; 

Let your light sisters play; 

Ye, follow the bier 
Of the dead cold year, 

And make her grave green with tear 
on tear. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley . 


SEPTEMBER. 

There are twelve months throughout 
the year, 

From January to December— 

And the primest month of all the 
twelve 

Is the merry month of September! 
Then apples so red 
Hang overhead, 

And nuts ripe-brown 
Come showering down 
In the bountiful days of September! 

There are flowers enough in the 
summer-time, 

More flowers than I can remember— 
But none with the purple, gold, and 
red 

That dyes the flowers of September! 

The gorgeous flowers of September! 


And the sun looks through 
A clearer blue, 

And the moon at night 
Sheds a clearer light 
On the beautiful flowers of Sep¬ 
tember ! 

The poor too often go scant and bare, 
But it glads my soul to remember 
That ’tis harvest-time throughout the 
land 

In the bountiful month of Sep¬ 
tember ! 

Oh! the good, kind month of Sep¬ 
tember ! 

It giveth the poor 
The growth of the moor; 

And young and old 
’Mong sheaves of gold, 

Go gleaning in rich September. 

Mary Howitt. 


DECEMBER. 

In a drear-nighted December, 

Too happy, happy tree, 

Thy branches ne’er remember 
Their green felicity. 

The north cannot undo them, 

With a sleety whistle through them; 
Nor frozen thawings glue them 
From budding at the prime. 

In a drear-nighted December, 

Too happy, happy brook, 

Thy bubblings ne’er remember 
Apollo’s summer look; 

But with a sweet forgetting, 

They stay their crystal fretting 
Never, never petting 
About the frozen time. 

Ah! would ’twere so with many 
A gentle girl and boy! 

But were there ever any 
Writhed not at passed joy? 


200 


Poems for Children 


To know the change and feel it, 
When there is none to heal it, 

Nor numbed sense to steal it, 

Was never said in rhyme. 

John Keats . 

DEATH OF THE OLD YEAR. 

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, 
And the winter winds are wearily 
sighing: 

Toll ye the church-bell sad and slow, 
And tread softly and speak low, 

For the Old Year lies a-dying. 

Old Year, you must not die; 

You came to us so readily, 

You lived with us so steadily, 

Old Year, you shall not die. 

He lieth still; he doth not move; 

He will not see the dawn of day. 

He hath no other life above. 

He gave me a friend, and a true true- 
love, 

And the New Year will take ’em away. 

Old Year, you must not go; 

So long as you have been with us, 
Such joy as you have seen with us, 
Old Year, you shall not go. 

He froth’d his bumpers to the brim; 
A jollier year we shall not see. 

But tho’ his eyes are waxing dim, 
And tho’ his foes speak ill of him, 

He was a friend to me. 

Old Year, you shall not die; 

We did so laugh and cry with you, 
I’ve half a mind to die with you, 
Old Year, if you must die. 

He was full of joke and jest, 

But all his merry quips are o’er. 

To see him die, across the waste 
His son and heir doth ride post-haste, 
But he’ll be dead before. 


Every one for his own. 

The night is starry and cold, my 
friend, 

And the New Year blithe and bold, 
my friend, 

Comes up to take his own. 

How hard he breathes! over the snow 
I heard just now the crowing cock. 
The shadows flicker to and fro; 

The cricket chirps; the light burns 
low; 

’Tis nearly twelve o ’clock. 

Shake hands before you die. 

Old Year, we’ll dearly rue for you; 
What is it we can do for you ? 
Speak out before you die. 

His face is growing sharp and thin, 
Alack! our friend is gone. 

Close up his eyes; tie up his chin; 
Step from the corpse, and let him in 
That standeth there alone, 

And waiteth at the door. 

There’s a new foot on the floor, my 
friend, 

And a new face at the door, my 
friend, 

A new face at the door. 

Alfred Tennyson. 


THE WINTER FIRE. 

A fire’s a good companionable friend, 
A comfortable friend, who meets your 
face 

With welcome glad, and makes the 
poorest shed 

As pleasant as a palace! Are you 
cold ? 

He warms you—Weary? he refreshes 

you, 


201 


The Seasons 

Are you in darkness? he gives light THE WIND. 


to you— 

In a strange land? he wears a face 
that is 

Familiar from your childhood. Are 
you poor?— 

What matters it to him? He knows 
no difference 

Between an emperor and the poorest 
beggar! 

Where is the friend, that bears the 
name of man, 

Will do as much for you ? 

Mary Howitt. 


WHEN ICICLES HANG BY 
THE WALL. 

When icicles hang by the wall, 

And Dick the shepherd blows his 
nail, 

And Tom bears logs into the hall, 
And milk comes frozen home in 
pail; 

When blood is nipp’d and ways be 
foul, 

Then nightly sings the staring owl, 
To-who; 

Tu-whit, To-who, a merry note, 

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 

When all around the wind doth blow, 
And coughing drowns the parson’s 
saw, 

And birds sit brooding in the mow. 
And Marian’s nose looks red and 
raw, 

When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, 

Then nightly sings the staring owl, 
To-who; 

Tu-whit, To-who, a merry note. 

While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 

William Shakespeare. 


The wind has a language, I would I 
could learn; 

Sometimes ’tis soothing, and some¬ 
times ’tis stern; 

Sometimes it comes like a low, sweet 
song, 

And all things grow calm, as the 
sound floats along; 

And the forest is lulled by the dreamy 
strain; 

And slumber sinks down on the wan¬ 
dering main; 

And its crystal arms are folded in 
rest, 

And the tall ship sleeps on its heaving 
breast. 

Letitia Elizabeth Landon. 


THE NORTH-EAST WIND. 

Welcome, wild north-easter! 

Shame it is to see 
Odes to every zephyr, 

Ne’er a verse to thee. 
Welcome, black north-easter! 

0 ’er the German foam; 

O’er the Danish moorlands, 
From thy frozen home. 
Tired we are of summer, 

Tired of gaudy glare,, 
Showers soft and steaming, 
Hot and breathless air. 
Tired of listless dreaming, 
Through the lazy day; 
Jovial wind of winter, 

Turn us out to play! 

Sweep the golden reed-beds; 

Crisp the lazy dyke; 

Hunger into madness 
Every plunging pike. 

Fill the lake with wild-fowl; 

Fill the marsh with snipe; 
While on dreamy moorlands 
Lonely curlew pipe. 


202 


Poems for Children 


Through the black fir forest 
Thunder harsh and dry, 
Shattering down the snow flakes, 
Off the curdled sky. 

# # # # * 

Charles Kingsley. 


THE WIND IN A FROLIC. 

The wind one morning sprang up 
from sleep, 

Saying, “ Now for a frolic! now for a 
leap! 

Now for a mad-cap galloping chase! 

I’ll make a commotion in every 

place!” 

So it swept with a bustle right 

through a great town, 

Cracking the signs and scattering 

down 

Shutters; and whisking, with merci¬ 
less squalls, 

Old women’s bonnets and gingerbread 
stalls. 

There never was heard a much lustier 
shout, 

As the apples and oranges trundled 
about; 

And the urchins that stand with their 
thievish eyes 

For ever on watch, ran off each with a 
prize. 

Then away to the field it went bluster¬ 
ing and humming, 

And the cattle all wonder’d whatever 
was coming; 

It pluck’d by the tails the grave 
matronly cows, 

And toss’d the colts’ manes all over 
their brows; 

Till, offended at such an unusual 
salute, 

They all turn’d their backs, and stood 
sulky and mute. 


So on it went capering and playing its 
pranks, 

Whistling with reeds on the broad 
river’s banks, 

Puffing the birds as they sat on the 
spray, 

Or the traveller grave on the king’s 
highway. 

It was not too nice to hustle the bags 

Of the beggar, and flutter his dirty 
rags; 

’Twas so bold, that it feared not to 
play its joke 

With the doctor’s wig or the gentle¬ 
man’s cloak. 

Through the forest it roar’d, and cried 
gaily, “Now, 

You sturdy old oaks, I’ll make you 
bow! ’ ’ 

And it made them bow without much 
ado, 

Or it crack’d their great branches 
through and through. 

Then it rush’d like a monster on cot¬ 
tage and farm, 

Striking their dwellings with sudden 
alarm; 

And they ran out like bees in a mid¬ 
summer swarm. 

There were dames with their kerchiefs 
tied over their caps, 

To see if their poultry were free from 
mishaps; 

The turkeys they gobbled, the geese 
scream’d aloud, 

And the hens crept to roost in a terri¬ 
fied crowd; 

There was rearing of ladders, and logs 
laying on, 

Where the thatch from the roof 
threaten’d soon to be gone. 

But the wind had swept on, and had 
met in a lane 

With a schoolboy, who panted and 
struggled in vain; 


2°3 


The Seasons 


For it toss’d him, and twirl’d him, 
then pass’d, and he stood 

With his hat in a pool, and his shoes 
in the mud. 

Then away went the wind in its holi¬ 
day glee, 

And now it was far on the billowy sea, 

And the lordly ships felt its stagger¬ 
ing blow, 

And the little boats darted to and fro. 

But lo! it was night, and it sank to 
rest 

On Bne sea-bird’s rock in the gleaming 
west, 

Laughing to think, in its fearful fun, 

How little of mischief it had done. 

William Howitt. 


WHICH WAY DOES THE 
WIND BLOW? 

Which way does the wind blow, 
Which way does he go? 

He rides over the water, 

He rides over snow; 

0 ’er wood and o ’er valley, 

And o’er rocky height, 

Which the goat cannot traverse, 
He taketh his flight. 

He rages and tosses 
In every bare tree, 

As, if you look upwards, 

You plainly may see. 

But whence he both cometh 
And whither he goes, 

There’s never a scholar 
In England that knows. 

Lucy Aikin. 


WINTER NIGHT. 

Blow, wind, blow! 

Drift the flying snow! 

Send it twirling, whirling overhead! 
There’s a bedroom in a tree 
Where, snug as snug can be, 

The squirrel nests in his cosey bed. 

Shriek, wind, shriek! 

Make the branches creak! 

Battle with the boughs till break o’ 
day! 

In a snow-cave warm and tight, 
Through the icy winter night 
The rabbit sleeps the peaceful hours 
away. 

Call, wind, call, 

In entry and in hall, 

Straight from off the mountain white 
and wild! 

Soft purrs the pussy-cat, 

On her little fluffy mat, 

And beside her nestles close her furry 
child. 

Scold, wind, scold, 

So bitter and so bold! 

Shake the windows with your tap, 
tap, tap! 

With half-shut, dreamy eyes 
The drowsy baby lies 
Cuddled closely in his mother’s lap. 

Mary Frances Butts. 

WILD WINDS. 

Oh, oh, how the wild winds blow! 
Blow high, 

Blow low, 

And whirlwinds go, 

To chase the little leaves that fly— 
Fly low and high, 

To hollow and to steep hillside; 

They shiver in the dreary weather, 
And creep in little heaps together, 
And nestle close and try to hide. 


204 Poems for Children 


Oh, oh, how the wild winds blow! 
Blow low, 

Blow high, 

And whirlwinds try 

To find a crevice—to find a crack, 

They whirl to the front; they whirl 
to the back. 

But Tommy and Will and the baby 
together 

Are snug and safe from the wintry 
weather. 

All the winds that blow 
Cannot touch a toe— 

Cannot twist or twirl 
One silken curl. 

They may rattle the doors in a noisy 
pack, 

But the blazing fires will drive them 
back. 

Mary Frances Butts. 

THE FROST. 

The Frost looked forth, one still clear 
night, 

And whispered, “Now I shall be out 
of sight; 

So through the valley and over the 
height, 

In silence I ’ll take my way: 

I will not go on like that blustering 
train, 

The wind and the snow, the hail and 
the rain, 

Who make so much bustle and noise 
in vain, 

But I’ll be as busy as they.” 

Then he flew to the mountain and 
powdered its crest; 

He lit on the trees, and their boughs 
he dressed 

In diamond beads—and over the 
breast 

Of the quivering lake he spread 

A coat of mail, that it need not fear 

The downward point of many a spear 


That hung on its margin far and near, 
Where a rock could rear its head. 

He went to the windows of those who 
slept, 

And over each pane, like a fairy, 
crept; 

Wherever he breathed, wherever he 
slept, 

By the light of the moon were seen 

Most beautiful things—there were 
flowers and trees; 

There were bevies of birds and swarms 
of bees; 

There were cities with temples and 
towers, and these 
All pictured in silver sheen! 

But he did one thing that was hardly 
fair; 

He peeped in the cupboard, and find¬ 
ing there 

That all had forgotten for him to 
prepare— 

“Now just to set them a-thinking, 

I’ll bite this basket of fruit,” said he, 

‘ 1 This costly pitcher I ’ll burst in 
three, 

And the glass of water they’ve left 
for me 

Shall ‘tchick!’ to tell them I’m 
drinking. ’ ’ 

Hannah Flagg Gould. 

WINTER. 

Lastly came Winter clothed all in 
frize, 

Chattering his teeth for cold that did 
him chill; 

Whilst on his hoary beard his breath 
did freeze, 

And the dull drops that from his 
purple bill 

As from a limbeck did adown distill; 

In his right hand a tipped staff he 
held 


20 5 


The Seasons 


With which his feeble steps he stayed 
still, 

For he was faint with cold and weak 
with eld, 

That scarce his loosed limbs he able 
was to weld. 

Edmund Spenser. 

OLD WINTER. 

Old Winter sad, in snowy clad, 

Is making a doleful din; 

But let him howl till he crack his 
jowl, 

We will not let him in. 

Ay, let him lift from the billowy drift 

His hoary, haggard form, 

And scowling stand, with his wrinkled 
hand 

Outstretching to the storm. 

And let his weird and sleety beard 

Stream loose upon the blast, 

And, rustling, chime to the tinkling 
rime 

From his bald head falling fast. 

Let his baleful breath shed blight and 
death 

On herb and flower and tree; 

And brooks and ponds in crystal 
bonds 

Bind fast, but what care we? 

Let him push at the door—in the 
chimney roar, 

And rattle the window pane; 

Let him in at us spy with his icicle 
eye, 

But he shall not entrance gain. 

Let him gnaw, forsooth, with his 
freezing tooth, 

On our roof tiles, till he tire; 

But we care not a whit, as we jovial 
sit 

Before our blazing fire. 

Come, lads, let’s sing, till the rafters 
ring; 


Come, push the can about;— 

From our snug fire-side this Christ¬ 
mas-tide 

We’ll keep old Winter out. 

Thomas Noel. 

MIDWINTER. 

The speckled sky is dim with snow, 
The light flakes falter and fall slow; 
Athwart the hill-top, rapt and pale, 
Silently drops a silver veil; 

And all the valley is shut in 
By flickering curtains gray and thin. 

But cheerily the chickadee 
Singeth to me on fence and tree; 

The snow sails round him as he sings, 
White as the down of angels’ wings. 

I watch the snowflakes as they fall 
On bank and brier and broken wall; 
Over the orchard, waste and brown, 
All noiselessly they settle down, 
Tipping the apple-boughs, and each 
Light quivering twig of plum and 
peach. 

On turf and curb and bower-roof 
The snow-storm spreads its ivory woof; 
It paves with pearl the garden-walk; 
And lovingly round tattered stalk 
And shivering stem its magic weaves 
A mantle fair as lily-leaves. 

The hooded beehive small and low, 
Stands like a maiden in the snow; 
And the old door-slab is half hid 
Under an alabaster lid. 

All day it snows: the sheeted post 
Gleams in the dimness like a ghost; 
All day the blasted oak has stood 
A muffled wizard of the wood; 
Garland and airy cap adorn 
The sumach and the wayside thorn, 
And clustering spangles lodge and 
shine 

In the dark tresses of the pine. 


206 


Poems for Children 


The ragged bramble, dwarfed and old, 
Shrinks like a beggar in the cold; 

In surplice white the cedar stands, 
And blesses him with priestly hands. 
Still cheerily the chickadee 
Singeth to me on fence and tree: 

But in my inmost ear is heard 
The music of a holier bird; 

And heavenly thoughts as soft and 
white 

As snowflakes on my soul alight, 
Clothing with love my lonely heart, 
Healing with peace each bruised part, 
Till all my being seems to be 
Transfigured by their purity. 

John Townsend Trowbridge. 

WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE 
PUNKIN.* 

When the frost is on the punkin and 
the fodder’s in the shock, 

And you hear the kyouck and gobble 
of the struttin’ turkey-cock, 

And the clackin’ of the guineys, and 
the cluckin ’ of the hens, 

And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he 
tiptoes on the fence; 

O, it’s then’s the times a feller is 
a-feelin ’ at his best, 

With the risin’ sun to greet him from 
a night of peaceful rest, 

As he leaves the house, bareheaded, 
and goes out to feed the stock, 
When the frost is on the punkin and 
the fodder’s in the shock. 

They’s something kindo’ harty-like 
about the atmusfere 
When the heat of summer’s over and 
the coolin’ fall is here— 

Of course we miss the flowers, and the 
blossoms on the trees, 

*From the Biographical Edition of the 
complete works of James Whitcomb Riley, 
copyright 1913, used by special permission of 
the publishers, The Bobbs-Merrill Company. 


And the mumble of the hummin ’-birds 
and buzzin ’ of the bees ; 

But the air’s so appetizin’; and the 
landscape through the haze 
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the 
airly autumn days 

Is a pictur’ that no painter has the 
colorin’ to mock— 

When the frost is on the punkin and 
the fodder’s in the shock. 

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels 
of the corn, 

And the raspin ’ of the tangled leaves, 
as golden as the morn; 

The stubble in the furries—kindo’ 
lonesome-like, but still 
A-preaehin’ sermuns to us of the 
barns they growed to fill; 

The strawstack in the medder, and the 
reaper in the shed; 

The hosses in theyr stalls below—the 
clover overhead!— 

O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the 
tickin’ of a clock, 

When the frost is on the punkin and 
the fodder’s in the shock. 

Then your apples all is gethered, and 
the ones a feller keeps 
Is poured around the celler-floor in 
red and yeller heaps; 

And your cider-makin’ ’s over, and 
your wimmen-folks is through 
With their mince and apple-butter, 
and theyr souse and saussage, 
too! 

I don’t know how to tell it—but ef 
sich a thing could be 
As the Angels wantin’ boardin’, and 
they’d call around on me — 

I’d want to ’commodate ’em—all the 
whole-indurin ’ flock— 

When the frost is on the punkin and 
the fodder’s in the shock! 

James Whitcomb Riley. 


VII 


Fields and Woods 


THE BARLEY-MOWERS’ SONG. 

Barley-mowers, here we stand, 
One, two, three, a steady band; 
True of heart, and strong of limb, 
Ready in our harvest trim; 

All a-row with spirits blithe, 

Now we whet the bended scythe, 
Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a- 
tink! 

Side by side, now bending low, 
Down the swaths of barley go, 
Stroke by stroke, as true as chime 
Of the bells, we keep in time; 
Then we whet the ringing scythe, 
Standing ’mid the barley lithe, 
Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a- 
tink! 

Barley-mowers must be true, 
Keeping still the end in view, 

One with all, and all with one, 
Working on till set of sun, 
Bending all with spirits blithe, 
Whetting all at once the scythe, 
Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a- 
tink! 

Day and night, and night and 
day, 

Time, the mower, will not stay; 
We must hear him in our path 
By the falling barley-swath; 
While we sing with voices blithe, 
We may hear his ringing scythe, 
Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a- 
tink! 


After labours cometh ease; 
Sitting now beneath the trees, 
Round we send the barley wine 
Life-infusing, clear and fine; 
Now refreshed, alert, and blithe, 
Rise we all and whet the scythe, 
Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a - 
tink! 

Mary Howitt. 


CORNFIELDS. 

In the young merry time of spring, 
When clover ’gins to burst; 

When bluebells nod within the wood, 
And sweet May whitens first; 

When merle * and mavis f sing their 
fill, 

Green is the young corn on the hill. 

But when the merry spring is past, 
And summer groweth bold, 

And in the garden and the field 
A thousand flowers unfold, 

Before a green leaf yet is sere, 

The young corn shoots into the ear. 

And then as day and night succeed, 
And summer weareth on, 

And in the flowery garden-beds 
The red rose groweth wan, 

And hollyhocks and sunflowers tall 
O’ertop the mossy garden wall. 

* Merle— blackbird. 


t Mavis— thrush. 


2o8 


Poems for Children 


When on the breath of autumn breeze, 

From pastures dry and brown, 

Goes floating like an idle thought, 

The fair white thistle-down; 

Oh, then what joy to walk at will 

Upon that golden harvest hill! 

# # * # # 

0 golden fields of bending corn 
How beautiful they seem! 

The reaper folk, the piled-up sheaves, 
To me are like a dream; 

The sunshine and the very air 
Seem of old time and take me there! 

Mary Howitt. 


THE CORN SONG. 

Heap high the farmer’s wintry board! 

Heap high the golden corn! 

No richer gift has autumn poured 
From out her lavish horn! 

Let other lands, exulting, glean 
The apple from the pine, 

The orange from its glossy green, 

The cluster from the vine. 

We better love the hardy gift 
Our rugged vales bestow, 

To cheer us when the storm shall drift 
Our harvest-fields with snow. 


Through vales of grass and meads of 
flowers, 

Our plough their furrows made, 
While on the hills the sun and showers 

Of changeful April played. 

We dropped the seed o’er hill and 
plain 

Beneath the sun of May, 

And frightened from our sprouting 
grain 

The robber crows away. 


All through the long, bright days of 
June 

Its leaves grew green and fair, 

And waved in hot midsummer’s noon 
Its soft and yellow hair. 

And now with autumn’s moonlit eves, 
Its harvest-time has come, 

We pluck away the frosted leaves, 
And bear the treasure home. 


There richer than the fabled gift 
Apollo showered of old, 

Fair hands the broken grain shall sift, 
And knead its meal of gold. 

Let vapid idlers loll in silk 
Around their costly board; 

Give us the bowl of samp and milk, 

By homespun beauty poured! 

Where’er the wide old kitchen hearth 
Sends up its smoky curls, 

Who will not thank the kindly earth, 
And bless our farmer girls! 

Then shame on all the proud and vain, 
Whose folly laughs to scorn 

The blessing of our hardy grain, 

Our wealth of golden corn! 

Let earth withhold her goodly root, 
Let mildew blight the rye, 

Give to the worm the orchard’s fruit. 
The wheat field to the fly: 

But let the good old crop adorn 
The hills our fathers trod; 

Still let us for His golden corn, 

Send up our thanks to God! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 



Fields and Woods 


209 


THE HOCK-CART, OR 
HARVEST-HOME. 

Come, sons of summer, by whose toil 
We are the lords of wine and oil; 

By whose tough labours and rough 
hands, 

We rip up first, then reap our lands. 
Crown’d with the ears of corn, now 
come, 

And, to the pipe, sing Harvest Home! 

Come forth, my lord, and see the cart 
Drest up with all the country art:— 
See, here a maukin, there a sheet, 

As spotless pure as it is sweet; 

The horses, mares, and frisking fillies, 
Clad all in linen white as lilies:— 

The harvest swains and wenches bound 
For joy, to see the hock-cart crown’d. 

About the cart hear how the rout 
Of rural younglings raise the shout, 
Pressing before, some coming after, 
Those with a shout, and these with 
laughter. 

Some bless the cart, some kiss the 
sheaves, 

Some prank them up with oaken 
leaves; 

Some cross the fill-horse, some with 
great 

Devotion stroke the home-borne wheat; 
While other rustics, less attent 
To prayers than to merriment, 

Run after with their breeches rent. 
Well, on, brave boys, to*your lord’s 
hearth, 

Glitt’ring with fire, where, for your 
mirth, 

You shall see first the large and chief 
Foundation of your feast, fat beef! 
With upper stories, mutton, veal, 

And bacon, which makes full the meal; 
With sev’ral dishes standing by, 

As, here a custard, there a pie, 

And here all-tempting frumenty. 


And for to make the merry cheer, 

If smirking wine be wanting here, 
There’s that, which drowns all care, 
stout beer; 

Which freely drink to your lord’s 
health, 

Then to the plough, the common¬ 
wealth, 

Next to your flails, your fanes, your 
fatts; 

Then to the maids with wheaten hats; 
To the rough sickle, and crook’t scythe, 
Drink, frolick, boys, till all be blythe. 
Feed and grow fat, and as ye eat, 

Be mindful that the lab ’ring neat, 

As you, may have their fill of meat; 
And know, besides, ye must revoke 
The patient ox unto the yoke, 

And all go back unto the plough 
And harrow, though they’re hanged 
up now 

And, you must know, your lord’s 
words true, 

Feed him ye must, whose food fills 
you: 

And that this pleasure is like rain, 

Not sent ye for to drown your pain, 
But for to make it spring again. 

Robert Herrick. 

A BOY’S SONG. 

Where the pools are bright and deep, 
Where the gray trout lies asleep, 

Up the river and o’er the lea, 

That’s the way for Billy and me. 

Where the blackbird sings the latest, 
Where the hawthorn blooms the 
sweetest, 

Where the nestlings chirp and flee, 
That’s the way for Billy and me. 

Where the mowers mow the cleanest, 
Where the hay lies thick and greenest, 
There to trace the homeward bee, 
That’s the way for Billy and me. 


210 


Poems for Children 


Where the hazel bank is steepest, 
Where the shadow falls the deepest, 
Where the clustering nuts fall free, 
That’s the way for Billy and me. 

Why the boys should drive away 
Little sweet maidens from the play, 

Or love to banter and fight so well, 
That’s the thing I never could tell. 

But this I know, I love to play, 
Through the meadow, among the hay; 
Up the water and o’er the lea, 

That’s the way for Billy and me.. 

James Hogg. 


BATHING. 

The May winds gently lift the willow 
leaves; 

Around the rushy point comes wel¬ 
tering slow 

The brimming stream; alternate sinks 
and heaves 

The lily-bud, where small waves ebb 
and flow. 

Willow herb and meadow sweet! 
Ye the soft gales, that visit there, 
From your waving censers greet 
With store of freshest balmiest air. 

Come bathe—the steaming noontide 
hour invites; 

Even in your face the sparkling 
waters smile— 

Yet on the brink they linger, timid 
wights, 

Pondering and measuring; on their 
gaze the while 

Eddying pool and shady creek 
Darker and deeper seem to grow: 

On and onward still, they seek 
Where sports may less adventurous 
show. 


At length the boldest springs: but ere 
he cleave 

The flashing waters, eye and thought 
grow dim; 

Too rash it seems, the firm green earth 
to leave: 

Heaven is beneath him: shall he 
sink or swim? 

Far in boundless depth he sees 
The rushing clouds obey the gale, 
Trembling hands and tottering 
knees, 

All in that dizzy moment fail. 

John Keble. 


UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE. 

Under the greenwood tree 
Who loves to lie with me, 

And tune his merry note 
Unto the sweet bird’s throat, 
Come hither,come hither, come hither; 
Here shall he see 
No enemy, 

But winter and rough weather. 

Who doth ambition shun, 

And loves to lie i’ the sun, 
Seeking the food he eats 
And pleased with what he gets, 
Come hither, come hither, come hither! 
Here shall he see 
No enemy, 

But winter and rough weather. 

William Shakespeare. 


THE SHEPHERD. 

How sweet is the shepherd’s sweet lot; 
From the morn to the evening he 
strays; 

He shall follow his sheep all the day, 
And his tongue shall be filled with 
praise. 


Fields and Woods 


For he hears the lamb’s innocent call, 
And he hears the ewe’s tender reply; 
He is watchful while they are in peace, 
For they know when their shepherd is 
nigh. 

William Blake. 

SHEPHERD BOY’S SONG. 

He that is down needs fear no fall; 

He that is low no pride; 

He that is humble ever shall 
Have God to be his Guide. 

I am content with what I have, 

Little be it or much; 

And, Lord, contentment still I crave, 
Because thou savest such. 

Fulness to such a burden is, 

That go on pilgrimage: 

Here little, and hereafter bliss, 

Is best from age to age. 

John Banyan. 

LINES FROM THE LADY OF THE 

LAKE. 

The western waves of ebbing day 
Roll’d o’er the glen their level way; 
Each purple peak, each flinty spire, 
Was bathed in floods of living fire. 
But not a setting beam could glow 
Within the dark ravines below, 

Where twined the path, in shadow 
hid, 

Round many a rocky pyramid. 

# # * # * 

Boon nature scatter’d, free and wild, 
Each plant or flower, the mountain’s 
child. 

Here eglantine embalm’d the air, 
Hawthorn and hazel mingled there; 
The primrose pale and violet flower 
Found in each cliff a narrow bower; 
Fox-glove and night-shade, side by 
side, 

Emblems of punishment and pride, 
Group’d their dark hues with every 
stain 


21 1 

The weather-beaten crags retain. 
With boughs that quaked at every 
breath, 

Gray birch and aspen wept beneath; 
Aloft, the ash and warrior oak 
Cast anchor in the rifted rock; 

And, higher yet, the pine-tree hung 
His shatter’d trunk, and frequent 
flung, 

Where seem’d the cliffs to meet on 
high, 

His boughs athwart the narrow’d sky. 
Highest of all, where white peaks 
glanced, 

Where glist’ning streamers waved 
and danced, 

The wanderer’s eye could barely view 
The summer heaven’s delicious blue; 
So wondrous wild, the whole might 
seem 

The scepery of a fairy dream. 

Walter Scott. 

HIGHLAND CATTLE. 

Down the wintry mountain 
Like a cloud they come, 

Not like a cloud in its silent shroud 
When the sky is leaden and the 
earth all dumb, 

But tramp, tramp, tramp, 

With a roar and a shock, 

And stamp, stamp, stamp, 

Down the hard granite rock, 

With the snow-flakes falling fair 
Like an army in the air 
Of white-winged angels leaving 
Their heavenly homes, half grieving, 
And half glad to drop down kindly 
upon earth so bare: 

With a snort and a bellow 
Tossing manes dun and yellow, 

Red and roan, black and gray, 

In their fierce merry play, 

Though the sky is all leaden and the 
earth all dumb— 

Down the noisy cattle come! 



2\2 


Poems for Children 


Throned on the mountain 
Winter sits at ease: 

Hidden under mists are those peaks 
of amethyst 

That rose like hills of heaven above 
the amber seas. 

While crash, crash, crash, 

Through frozen heather brown, 
And dash, dash, dash, 

Where the ptarmigan drops down 
And the curlew stops her cry 
And the deer sinks, like to die— 

And the waterfall’s loud noise 
Is the only lifting voice— 

With a plunge and a roar 
Like mad waves upon the shore, 

Or the wind through the pass 
Howling o’er the reedy grass— 

In a wild battalion pouring from the 
heights unto the plain, 

Down the cattle come again! 

jt. A Jt. jt. 

W W VS* VS* *JT 

Dinah Maria Mulock. 

THE SHEPHERD IN WINTER. 

When red hath set the beamless sun, 
Through heavy vapours dark and dun; 
When the tired ploughman, dry and 
warm, 

Hears, half-asleep, the rising storm 
Hurling the hail, and sleeted rain, 
Against the casement’s tinkling 
pane;— 

The sounds that drive wild deer, and 
fox, 

To shelter in the brake and rocks, 

Are warnings which the shepherd ask 
To dismal and to dangerous task! 

Oft he looks forth, and hopes, in vain, 
The blast may sink in mellowing rain; 
Till, dark above, and white below, 
Decided drives the flaky snow, 

And forth the hardy swain must go. 

Long, with dejected look and whine, 
To leave the hearth his dogs repine; 


Whistling and cheering them to aid, 
Around his back he wreathes the 
plaid; 

His flocks he gathers, and he guides 
To open downs, and mountain-sides, 
Where fiercest though the tempest 
blow, 

Least deeply lies the drift below. 

The blast, that whistles o’er the fells, 
Stiffens his locks to icicles; 

Oft he looks back, while streaming far, 
His cottage window seems-a star,— 
Loses its feeble gleam,—and then 
Turns patient to the blast again, 

And, facing to the tempest’s sweep, 
Drives through the gloom his lagging 
sheep. 

If fails his heart, if his limbs fail, 
Benumbing death is in the gale: 

His paths, his landmarks, all unknown, 
Close to the hut, no more his own, 
Close to the aid he sought in vain, 
The morn may find the stiffen’d 
swain: 

The widow sees, at dawning pale, 

His orphans raise their feeble wail; 
And, close beside him, in the snow, 
Poor Yarrow, partner of their woe, 
Couches upon his master’s breast, 
And licks his cheek to break his rest. 

Walter Scott. 

THE BLOSSOM. 

Merry, merry sparrow, 

Under leaves so green, 

A happy blossom 
Sees j r ou, swift as arrow 
Seek your cradle narrow 
Near my bosom. 

Pretty, pretty robin, 

Under leaves so green, 

A happy blossom 
Hears you sobbing, sobbing, 
Pretty, pretty robin. 

Near my bosom. 

William Blake. 


2 1 2 

vj 


Fields and Woods 


I STOOD TIPTOE UPON A 
LITTLE HILL. 

I stood tiptoe upon a little hill; 

The air was cooling and so very still, 

That the sweet buds which with a 
modest pride 

Pull droopingly, in slanting curve 
aside, 

Their scanty-leaved, and finely-taper¬ 
ing stems, 

Had not yet lost their starry diadems 

Caught from the early sobbing of the 
morn. 

The clouds were pure and white as 
flocks new-shorn, 

And fresh from the clear brook; 
sweetly they slept 

On the blue fields of heaven, and then 
there crept 

A little noiseless noise among the 
leaves, 

Born of the very sigh that silence 
heaves; 

For not the faintest motion could be 
seen 

Of all the shades that slanted o’er the 
green. 

John Keats. 


TO MEADOWS. 

Ye have been fresh and green; 

Ye have been filled with flowers; 
And ye the walks have been 
Where maids have spent their hours. 

You have beheld how they 
With wicker arks did come, 

To kiss and bear away 
The richer cowslips home. 

You’ve heard them sweetly sing, 

And seen them in a round; 

Each virgin like a spring, 

With honeysuckles crowned. 


But now we see none here, 

Where silvery feet did tread, 

And with dishevelled hair 
Adorn this smoother mead. 

Like unthrifts, having spent 
Your stock, and needy grown, 

You’re left here to lament 
Your poor estates alone. 

Robert Herrick. 

A GARDEN. 

A sensitive plant in a garden grew, 

And the young winds fed it with sil¬ 
ver dew, 

And it open’d its fan-like leaves to 
the light, 

And closed them beneath the kisses of 
night. 

And the Spring arose on the garden 
fair, 

And the Spirit of Love fell every¬ 
where ; 

And each flower and herb on Earth’s 
dark breast 

Rose from the dreams of its wintry 
nest. 

# # # * ^ 

The snowdrop, and then the violet, 

Arose from the ground with warm 
rain wet, 

And their breath was mix’d with fresh 
odour, sent 

From the turf, like the voice and the 
instrument. 

Then the pied wind-flowers and the 
tulip tall, 

And narcissi, the fairest among them 
all, 

Who gaze on their eyes in the stream’s 
recess, 

Till they die of their own dear loveli¬ 
ness. 


214 


Poems for Children 


And the Naiad-like lily of the vale, 

Whom youth makes so fair and pas¬ 
sion so pale, 

That the light of its tremulous bell is 
seen, 

Through their pavilions of tender 
green. 

And the hyacinth, purple and white 
and blue, 

Which flung from its bells a sweet 
peal anew, 

Of music so delicate, soft, and intense, 

It was felt like an odour within the 
sense. 

# # # # # 

And the jessamine faint, and the sweet 
tuberose, 

The sweetest flower for scent that 
blows; 

And all rare blossoms from every 
clime 

Grew in that garden in perfect prime. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley , 


GARDENING. 

Seest thou yon woodland child. 
How amid flowerets wild, 

Wilder himself, he plies his pleasure- 
task ? 

That ring of fragrant ground, 
With its low woodbine bound, 

He claims: no more, as yet, his little 
heart need ask. 

There learns he flower and weed 
To sort with careful heed: 

He waits not for the weary noontide 
hour. 

There with the soft night air 
Comes his refreshing care: 

Each tiny leaf looks up and thanks 
him for the shower. 


Thus faithful found a.while, 

He wins the joyous smile 
Of friend or parent: glad and bright 
is he, 

For when his garland gay 
He hears the kind voice say, 
“Well hast thou wrought, dear boy: 
the garden thine shall be . 1 * 

John Keble. 


GOING A-MAYING. 

Get up, get up, for shame! the bloom¬ 
ing morn 

Upon her wings presents the god 
unshorn; 

See how Aurora throws her fair, 

Fresh-quilted colours through the 
air. 

Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see 

The clew-bespangling herb and 
tree! 

Each flower has wept, and bowed to¬ 
ward the east, 

Above an hour since, yet you not 
clrest— 

Nay, not so much as out of bed; 

When all the birds have matins 
said, 

And sung their thankful hymns; 
’tis sin, 

Nay, profanation, to keep in, 

Whenas a thousand virgins on this 
day, 

Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch 
in May. 

Rise, and put on your foliage, and be 
seen 

To come forth, like the Springtime, 
fresh and green, 

And sweet as Flora. Take no care 

For jewels for your gown or hair! 

Fear not, the leaves will strew 

Gems in abundance upon you. 


215 


Fields and Woods 


Besides, the childhood of the day has 
kept, 

Against you come, some orient pearls 
unwept. 

Come, and receive them while the 
light 

Hangs on the dew-locks of the 
night, 

And Titan on the eastern hill 

Retires himself, or else stands still 

Till you come forth! Wash, dress, be 
brief in praying, 

Few beads are best, when once we go 
a-Maying. 

Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, 
mark 

How each field turns a street, each 
street a park, 

Made green, and trimmed with 
trees! See how 

Devotion gives each house a bough 

Or branch! each porch, each door, 
ere this, 

An ark, a tabernacle is, 

Made up of white-thorn neatly inter¬ 
wove, 

As if here were the cooler shades of 
love. 

Can such delights be in the street, 

And open fields, and we not see’t? 

Come, we’ll abroad, and let’s obey 

The proclamation made for May. 

And sin no more, as we have done, by 
staying, 

But, my Corinna, come, let’s go a- 
Maying. 

There’s not a budding boy or girl, this 
day, 

But is got up, and gone to bring in 
May. 

A deal of youth, ere this, is come 

Back, and with white-thorn laden 
home. 

Some have despatched their cakes 
and cream, 


Before that we have left to dream: 
And some have wept, and woo’d, and 
plighted troth, 

And chose their priest, ere we can cast 
off sloth. 

Many a green gown has been given, 
Many a kiss, both odd and even, 
Many a glance, too, has been sent 
From out the eye, love’s firmament: 
Many a jest told of the keys betraying 
This night, and locks picked, yet we’re 
not a-Maying. 

Robert Herrick. 

VIOLETS. 

Welcome, maids of honour! 

You do bring 
In the Spring, 

And wait upon her. 

She hath virgins many, 

Fresh and fair; 

Yet you are 
More sweet than any. 

You’re the maiden poisies; 

And so graced, 

To be placed 
’Fore damask roses. 

Yet, though thus respected, 

By and by 
Ye do lie, 

Poor girls, neglected. 

Robert Herrick. 

GREEN THINGS GROWING. 

Oh, the green things growing, the 
green things growing, 

The faint sweet smell of the green 
things growing! 

I should like to live, whether I smile 
or grieve, 

Just to watch the happy life of my 
green things growing. 


Poems for Children 


216 

Oh, the fluttering and the pattering of 
those green things growing! 

How they talk each to each, when none 
of us are knowing; 

In the wonderful white of the weird 
moonlight 

Of the dim dreamy dawn when the 
cocks are crowing. 

I love, I love them so,—my green 
things growing! 

And I think that they love me, with¬ 
out false showing; 

For by many a tender touch, they 
comfort me so much, 

With the soft mute comfort of green 
things growing. 

Dinah Maria M-ulock. 


SWEET PEAS. 

Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a 
flight: 

With wings of gentle flush o’er deli¬ 
cate white, 

And taper fingers catching at all 
things, 

To bind them all about with tiny 
rings. 

Linger a while upon some bending 
planks 

That lean against a streamlet’s rushy 
banks, 

And watch intently Nature’s gentle 
doings: 

They will be found softer than ring¬ 
dove ’s cooings. 

How silent comes the water round that 
bend! 

Not the minutest whisper does it send 

To the o’erhanging sallows: blades of 
grass 

Slowly across the chequer’d shadows 
pass. 

John Keats. 


A ROSEBUD. 

A rosebud by my early walk, 

Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, 

Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, 

All on a dewy morning. 

Ere twice the shades 0’ dawn are fled, 
In a’ its crimson glory spread, 

And drooping rich the dewy head, 

It scents the early morning. 

Within the bush, her covert nest 
A little linnet fondly prest, 

The dew sat chilly on her breast 
Sae early in the morning. 

So thou, dear bird, young Jenny fair, 
On trembling string, or vocal air, 
Shall sweetly pay the tender care 

That tents thy early morning. 

So thou sweet rosebud, young and gay, 
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day, 
And bless the parents’ evening ray 

That watch thy early morning. 

Robert Burns. 


TO A PRIMROSE. 

Welcome, pale Primrose! starting up 
between 

Dead matted leaves of ash and oak, 
that strew 

The sunny lawn, the wood, and cop¬ 
pice through, 

’Mid creeping moss and ivy’s darker 
green; 

How much thy presence beautifies 
the ground! 

How sweet thy modest, unaffected 
pride 

Glows on the sunny bank, and wood’s 
warm side! 

And where thy fairy flowers in 
groups are found, 


Fields and Woods 


The schoolboy roams enchantedly 
along, 

Plucking the fairest with a rude 
delight: 

While the meek shepherd stops his 
simple song, 

To gaze a moment on the pleasing 
sight; 

O’er joyed to see the flowers that truly 
bring 

The welcome news of sweet returning 
spring. 

John Clare. 


WISHING. 

Ring-ting ! I wish I were a Prim¬ 
rose, 

A bright yellow Primrose blowing in 
the Spring! 

The stooping boughs above me, 

The wandering bee to love me, 
The fern and moss to keep across, 
And the Elm-tree for our King! 

Nay—nay! I wish I were an Elm- 
tree, 

A great lofty Elm-tree, with green 
leaves gay! 

The winds would set them danc¬ 
ing, 

The sun and moonshine glance in, 
The Birds would house among the 
boughs, 

And sweetly sing! 


0—no! I wish I were a Robin, 

A Robin or a little Wren, everywhere 
to go; 

Through forest, field or garden, 
And ask no leave or pardon, 

Till Winter comes with icy thumbs 
To ruffle up our wing. 


2, 7 

Well—tell! Where should I fly to, 
Where go to sleep in the dark wood or 
dell? 

Before a day was over, 

Home comes the rover, 

For Mother’s kiss—sweeter this 
Than any other thing! 

William Allingliam. 

BUTTERCUPS AND DAISIES. 

Buttercups and daisies, 

Oh, the pretty flowers; 

Coming ere the spring time, 

To tell of sunny hours. 

While the trees are leafless, 

While the fields are bare, 

Buttercups and daisies 
Spring up here and there. 

Ere the snow-drop peepeth, 

Ere the crocus bold, 

Ere the early primrose 
Opes its paly gold,— 

Somewhere on the sunny bank 
Buttercups are bright; 

Somewhere ’mong the frozen grass 
Peeps the daisy white. 

Little hardy flowers, 

Like to children poor, 

Playing in their sturdy health 
By their mother’s door. 

Purple with the north-wind, 

Yet alert and bold; 

Fearing not, and caring not, 
Though they be a-cold! 

What to them is winter! 

What are stormy showers! 

Buttercups and daisies 
Are these human flowers! 

He who gave them hardships 
And a life of care, 

Gave them likewise hardy strength 
And patient hearts to bear. 

Mary Hoivitt. 


2 18 


Poems for Children 


WILD ROSE. 

Some innocent girlish Kisses by a 
charm 

Changed to a flight of small pink 
Butterflies, 

To waver under June’s delicious 
skies 

Across gold-sprinkled meads — the 
merry swarm 

A smiling powerful world did next 
transform 

To little Roses mesh’d in green, 
allies 

Of earth and air, and everything we 
prize 

For mirthful, gentle, delicate and 
warm. 

William Allingham. 


FIELD FLOWERS. 

Ye field flowers! the gardens eclipse 
you, ’tis true, 

Yet, wildings of Nature, I doat upon 
you, 

For ye waft me to summers of old, 

When the earth teemed around me 
with fairy delight, 

And when daisies and buttercups 
gladdened my sight, 

Like treasures of silver and gold. 

I love you for lulling me back into 
dreams 

Of the blue Highland mountains and 
echoing streams— 

And of birchen glades breathing 
their balm, 

While the deer was seen glancing in 
sunshine remote, 

And the deep mellow crush of the 
wood-pigeon’s note, 

Made music that sweetened the 
calm. 


Not a pastoral song had a pleasanter 
tune 

Than ye speak to my heart, little wild¬ 
ings of June; 

Of old ruinous castles ye tell, 

Where I thought it delightful your 
beauties to find, 

When the magic of Nature first 
breathed on my mind, 

And your blossoms were part of her 
spell. 

Even now what affections the violet 
awakes! 

What loved little islands, twice seen in 
their lakes, 

Can the wild water lily restore! 

What landscape I read in the prim¬ 
rose’s looks, 

And what pictures of pebbled and 
minnowy brooks, 

In the vetches that tangled their 
shore. 

Earth’s cultureless buds, to my heart 
ye were dear, 

Ere the fever of passion, or ague of 
fear, 

* Had scathed my existence’s bloom; 

Once I welcome you more, in life’s 
passionless stage; 

With the visions of youth to revisit 
my age, 

And I wish you to grow on my 
tomb. 

Thomas Campbell. 


ALMOND BLOSSOM. 

Blossom of the almond trees, 
April’s gift to April’s bees, 
Birthday ornament of spring, 
Flora’s fairest daughterling; 
Coming when no flowerets dare 
Trust the cruel outer air; 

When the royal kingcup bold 
Dares not don his coat of gold; 


Fields and Woods 


And the sturdy black-thorn spray 
Keeps the silver for the May:— 
Coming when no flowerets would, 

Save thy lowly sisterhood, 

Early violets, blue and white, 

Dying for their love of light. 

Almond blossom, sent to teach us 
That the spring days soon will reach 
us, 

Lest, with longing over-tried, 

We die, as the violets died— 

Blossom, clouding all the tree 
With thy crimson broidery, 

Long before a leaf of green 
0 ’er the bravest bough is seen; 

Ah! when winter winds are swinging 
All thy red bells into ringing, 

With a bee in every bell, 

Almond blossoms, we greet thee well. 

Edwin Arnold . 

THE BLUEBELL. 

The Bluebell is the sweetest flower 
That waves in summer air: 

Its blossoms have the mightiest power 
To soothe my spirit’s care. 

There is a spell in purple heath 
Too wildly, sadly dear; 

The violet has a fragrant breath, 

But fragrance will not cheer. 

The trees are bare, the sun is cold, 
And seldom, seldom seen; 

The heavens have lost their zone of 
gold, 

And earth her robes of green. 

And ice upon the glancing stream 
Has cast its sombre shade; 

The distant hills and valleys seem 
In frozen mist arrayed. 

The Bluebell cannot charm me now, 
The heath has lost its bloom; 

The violets in the glen below, 

They yield no sweet perfume. 


219 

But though I mourn the sweet Blue¬ 
bell, 

’Tis better far away; 

I know how fast my tears would swell 
To see it smile to-day. 

For, oh! when chill the sunbeams fall 
Adown that dreary sky, 

And gild yon dank and darkened wall 
With transient brilliancy. 

How do I weep, how do I pine 
For the time of flowers to come, 
And turn me from that fading shrine, 
To mourn the fields of home. 

Emily Bronte. 


THE GRASS. 

The grass so little has to do,— 

A sphere of simple green, 

With only butterflies to brood, 

And bees to entertain, 

And stir all day to pretty tunes 
The breezes fetch along, 

And hold the sunshine in its lap 
And bow to everything; 

And thread the dews all night, like 
pearls, 

And make itself so fine,— 

A duchess were too common 
For such a noticing. 

And even when it dies, to pass 
In odours so divine, 

As lowly spices gone to sleep, 

Or amulets of pine. 

And then to dwell in sovereign barns, 
And dream the days away,— 

The grass so little has to do, 

I wish I were the hay! 

Emily Dickinson. 


220 


Poems for Children 


TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE. 

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen 
sire! 

Whose modest form so delicately fine, 
Was nursed in whirling storms, 

And cradled in the winds. 

Thee, when young Spring first ques¬ 
tioned Winter’s sway, 

And dared the sturdy blusterer to the 
fight, 

Thee on this bank he threw 
To mark his victory. 

In this low vale the promise of the 
year, 

Serene thou openest to the nipping 
gale, 

Unnoticed and alone, 

Thy tender elegance. 

So virtue blooms, brought forth amid 
the storms 

Of chill adversity; in some lone walk 
Of life she rears her head, 

Obscure and unobserved. 

While every bleaching breeze that on 
her blows, 

Chastens her spotless purity of breast, 
And hardens her to bear 
Serene the ills of life. 

Henry Kirke White. 


TO THE SMALL CELANDINE. 

Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies, 
Let them live upon their praises; 

Long as there’s a sun that sets, 
Primroses will have their glory; 

Long as there are violets, 

They will have a place in story; 
There’s a flower that shall be mine, 
’Tis the little Celandine. 


Eyes of some men travel far 
For the finding of a star; 

Up and down the heavens they go, 
Men that keep a mighty rout! 

I’m as great as them, I trow, 

Since the day I found thee out. 
Little Flower! I’ll make a stir, 

Like a sage astronomer. 

Modest, yet withal an elf 
Bold, and lavish of thyself; 

Since we needs must first have met, 
I have seen thee high and low, 

Thirty years or more, and yet 
’Twas a face I did not know; 

Thou hast now, go where I may, 

Fifty greetings in a day. 

Ere a leaf is on a bush, 

In a time before the thrush 
Has a thought about her nest, 

Thou wilt come with half a call, 
Spreading out thy glossy breast 
Like a careless prodigal; 

Telling tales about the sun, 

When we’ve little warmth or none. 

Poets, vain men in their mood! 

Travel with the multitude: 

Never heed them; I aver 
That they all are wanton wooers; 

But the thrifty cottager, 

Who stirs little out of doors, 

Joys to spy thee near her home; 

Spring is coming, thou art come! 

Comfort have thou of thy merit, 
Kindly, unassuming spirit! 

Careless of thy neighbourhood, 

Thou dost show thy pleasant face 
On the moor, and in the wood, 

In the lane—there’s not a place 
Howsoever mean it be, 

But ’tis good enough for thee. 


221 


Fields and Woods 


Ill befall the yellow flowers, 

Children of the flaring hours! 

Buttercups, that will be seen, 
Whether we will see or no; 

Others, too, of lofty mien; 

They have done as worldings do, 
Taken praise that should be thine, 
Little, humble Celandine! 

Prophet of delight and mirth, 
Ill-requited upon earth; 

Herald of a mighty band, 

Of a joyous train ensuing, 

Serving at my heart’s command, 
Tasks that are no tasks renewing, 

I will sing, as dost behove, 

Hymns in praise of what I love. 

William Wordsworth . 

MINE HOST OF THE 
“GOLDEN APPLE” 

A goodly host one day was mine, 

A Golden Apple his only sign, 

That hung from a long branch, ripe 
and fine. 

My host was the beautiful Apple-tree; 
He gave me shelter and nourished me 
With the best of fare, all fresh and 
free. 

And light-winged guests came not a 
few, 

To his leafy inn, and sipped the dew, 
And sang their best songs ere they 
flew. 

I slept at night on a downy bed 
Of moss, and my Host benignly spread 
His own cool shadow over my head. 

When I asked what reckoning there 
might be, 

He shook his broad boughs cheerily:— 
A blessing be thine, green Apple- 
tree ! 


TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 

ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH A PLOUGH. 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower, 
Thou’st met me in an evil hour, 

For I must crush among the stoure 
Thy slender stem; 

To spare thee now is past my power; 
Thou bonny gem! 

Alas! it’s no thy neebor sweet, 

The bonny lark, companion meet, 
Bending thee hnong the dewy weet, 
Wi’ speckled breast, 

When upward springing, blithe to 
meet 

The purpling east. 

Cold blew the bitter biting north 
Upon thy early humble birth, 

Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 
Amid the storm; 

Scarce reared above the parent earth 
Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flowers our gardens 
yield, 

High sheltering woods and wa’s maun 
shield, 

But thou, beneath the random bield * 
Of clod or stane. 

Adorn’st the histie stubble-field, 
Unseen, alane. 

There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 

Thy snawy bosom sunward spread, 
Thou lift ’st thy unassuming head, 

In humble guise; 

But now the share uptears thy bed, 
And low thou lies. 

# * # # * 

Robert Burns. 


Thomas Westwood. 


* Shelter. 


222 


Poems for Children 


NARCISSUS. 

I saw the pride of all the meadows 
At morn, a gay Narcissus, blow 
Upon a river’s bank, whose shadow 
Bloomed in the silver waves below. 
By noontide’s heat its youth was 
wasted, 

The waters as they passed com¬ 
plained ; 

At eve its glories were all blasted, 
And not one former grace remained. 
While the wild rose, more safely grow¬ 
ing 

Low in the unaspiring vale, t 
Amidst retirement’s shelter blowing, 
Long sheds its sweetness on the gale. 

William Coivper . 

THE DAISY. 

ON FINDING ONE IN BLOOM ON CHRIST¬ 
MAS DAY. 

There is a flower, a little flower, 

With silver crest and golden eye, 

That welcomes every changing hour 

And weathers every sky; 

The prouder beauties of the field 

In gay but quick succession shine; 

Race after race their honours yield, 

They flourish and decline. 

* 

But this small flower, to Nature dear, 
While moons and stars their courses 
run, 

Wreathes the whole circle of the year, 
Companion of the sun. 

It smiles upon the lap of May, 

To sultry August spreads its 
charms, 

Lights pale October on its way, 

And twines December’s arms. 

The purple heath and golden broom, 
On moory mountains catch the gale. 
0 ’er lawns the lily sheds perfume, 
The violet in the vale; 


But this bold floweret climbs the hill, 
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen, 
Plays on the margin of the rill, 

Peeps round the fox’s den. 

Within the garden’s cultured round 
It shares the sweet carnation’s bed; 
And blooms on consecrated ground, 

In honour of the dead. 

The lambkin crops its crimson gem, 
The wild-bee murmurs on its breast, 
The blue fly bends its pensile stem 
Light o’er the sky-lark’s nest. 

’Tis Flora’s page: in every place, 

In every season, fresh and fair, 

It opens with perennial grace, 

And blossoms everywhere. 

On waste and woodland, rock and 
plain, 

The humble buds unheeded rise; 
The rose has but a summer reign, 
The daisy never dies. 

James Montgomery. 

I WANDERED LONELY AS A 
CLOUD. 

I wandered lonely as a cloud 

That floats on high o’er vales and 
hills, 

When all at once I saw a crowd, 

A host of golden daffodils: 

Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. 

Continuous as the stars that shine 
And twinkle on the milky way, 
They stretched in never-ending line 
Along the margin of a bay: 

Ten thousand saw I at a glance, 
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. 

The waves beside them danced, but 
they 

Out-did the sparkling waves in 
glee:— 


Fields and Woods 


A poet could not but be gay, 

In such a jocund company; 

I gazed — and gazed — but little 
thought 

What wealth the show to me had 
brought. 

For oft, when on my couch I lie 
In vacant or in pensive mood, 

They flash upon that inward eye 
Which is the bliss of solitude; 

And then my heart with pleasure fills, 
And dances with the daffodils. 

William Wordsworth. 

TO DAFFODILS. 

Fair daffodils, we weep to see 
You haste away so soon; 

As yet the early rising sun 
Has not attained his noon: 

Stay, stay 

Until the hastening day 
Has run 

But to the evensong; 

And having prayed together, we 
Will go with you along! 

We have short time to stay, as you, 
We have as short a spring, 

As quick a growth to meet decay, 

As you or anything. 

We die 

As your hours do; and dry 
Away,' 

Like to the summer’s rain, 

Or as the pearls of morning dew, 
Ne'er to be found again. 

Robert Herrick. 

TO THE FRINGED GENTIAN. 

Thou blossom bright with autumn 
dew, 

And coloured with the heaven's own 
blue, 

That openest, when the quiet light 
Succeeds the keen and frosty night. 


223 

Thou comest not when violets lean 
O'er wandering brooks and springs 
unseen, 

Or columbines in purple dressed, 

Nod o’er the ground-bird's hidden 
nest. 

Thou waitest late, and com’st alone, 
When woods are bare, and birds are 
flown, 

And frosts and shortening days por¬ 
tend 

The aged year is near his end. 

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye 
Look through its fringes to the sky, 
Blue—blue—as if that sky let fall 
A flower from its cerulean wall. 

I would that thus, when I shall see 
The hour of death draw near to me, 
Hope, blossoming within my heart, 
May look to Heaven as I depart. 

William Cullen Bryant. 


BABY SEED SONG. 

Little brown brother, 0I1! little brown 
brother, 

Are you awake in the dark? 

Here we lie cosily, close to each other: 

Hark to the song of the lark— 

“ Waken!" the lark says, “waken and 
dress you; 

Put on your green coats and gay, 

Blue sky will shine on you, sunshine 
caress you— 

Waken! 'tis morning—'tis May! ’ ’ 

Little brown brother, oh! little brown 
brother, 

What kind of flower will you be? 

I’ll be a poppy—all white, like my 
mother; 

Do be a poppy like me. 



Poems for Children 


224 

What! you’re a sun-flower? How I 
shall miss you 

When you’ve grown golden and 
high! 

But I shall send all the bees up to kiss 
you; 

Little brown brother, good-bye. 

Edith Nesbit. 


ORPHEUS. 

Orpheus with his lute made trees, 
And the mountain-tops, that freeze, 
Bow themselves, when he did sing: 
To his music, plants, and flowers, 
Ever spring; as sun and showers, 
There has been a lasting spring. 

Everything that heard him play, 

Even the billows of the sea, 

Hung their heads, and then lay by. 
In sweet music is such art; 

Killing care and grief of heart, 

Fall asleep, or, hearing die. 

William Shakespeare. 


THE FATE OF THE OAK. 

The owl to her mate is calling ; 

The river his hoarse song sings; 

But the oak is marked for falling, 
That has stood for a hundred 
springs. 

Hark! a blow, and a dull sound fol¬ 
lows ; 

A second—he bows his head; 

A third—and the wood’s dark hollows 
Now know that their king is dead. 

His arms from their trunk are riven; 

His body all barked and squared; 
And he’s now, like a felon, driven 
In chains to the strong dock-yard! 


He’s sawn through the middle, and 
turned 

For the ribs of a frigate free; 

And he’s caulked, and pitched, and 
burned; 

And now—he is fit for sea! 

Oh! now—with his wings outspread 
Like a ghost (if a ghost may be), 
He will triumph again, though dead, 
And be dreaded in every sea: 

The lightning will blaze about, 

And wrap him in flaming pride: 
And the thunder-loud cannon will 
shout, 

In the fight, from his bold broadside. 

And when he has fought, and won, 
And been honoured from shore to 
shore; 

And his journey on earth is done,— 
Why, what can he ask for more ? 
There is nought that a king can claim, 
Or a poet or warrior bold, 

Save a rhyme and a short-lived name. 
And to mix with the common mould! 

Barry Cornwall. 


THE OAK AND THE BEECH. 

For the tender beech and the sapling 
oak, 

That grew by the shadowy rill, 

You may cut down both at a single 
stroke, 

You may cut down which you will. 

But this you must know, that as long 
as they grow, 

Whatever change may be, 

You can never teach either oak or 
beech 

To be aught but a greenwood tree. 

Thomas Love Peacock. 


Fields and Woods 


BIND-WEED. 

In the deep shadows of the porch 
A slender bind-weed springs, 

And climbs, like airy acrobat, 

The trellises, and swings 
And dances in the golden sun 
In fairy loops and rings. 

Its cup-shaped blossoms, brimmed 
with dew, 

Like pearly chalices, 

Hold cooling fountains, to refresh 
The butterflies and bees; 

And humming-birds on vibrant wings 
Hover, to drink at ease. 

And up and down the garden-beds, 
Mid box and thyme and yew, 

And spikes of purple lavender, 

And spikes of larkspur blue, 

The bind-weed tendrils win their way, 
And find a passage through. 

With touches coaxing, delicate, 

And arts that never tire, 

They tie the rose-trees each to each, 
The lilac to the brier, 

Making for graceless things a grace, 
With steady, sweet desire. 

Till near and far the garden growths, 
The sweet, the frail, the rude, 

Draw close, as if with one consent, 
And find each other good, 

Held by the bind-weed’s pliant loops, 
In a dear brotherhood. 

Like one fair sister, slender, arch, 

A flower in bloom and poise, 

Gentle and merry and beloved, 
Making no stir or noise, 

But swaying, linking, blessing all 
A family of boys. 

Susan Coolidge. 


225 

A SONG OF CLOVER. 

I wonder what the clover thinks,— 
Intimate friend of Bob-o ’-links, 

Lover of Daisies slim and white, 
Waltzer with Buttercups at night; 
Keeper of Inn for traveling Bees, 
Serving to them wine-dregs and lees 
Left by the Royal Humming Birds, 
Who sip and pay with fine-spun 
words; 

Fellow with all the lowliest, 

Peer of the gayest and the best ; 
Comrade of winds, beloved of sun, 
Kissed by the Dew-drops, one b} T one ; 
Prophet of Good-Luck mystery 
By sign of four which few may see; 
Symbol of Nature’s magic zone, 

One out of three, and three in one; 
Emblem of comfort in the speech 
Which poor men’s babies early reach ; 
Sweet by the roadsides, sweet by rills, 
Sweet in the meadows, sweet on hills, 
Sweet in its white, sweet in its red,— 
Oh, half its sweetness cannot be 
said;— 

Sweet in its every living breath, 
Sweetest, perhaps, at last, in death! 
Oh! who knows what the Clover 
thinks ? 

No one! unless the Bob-o’-links! 

“Saxe Holm .” 

THE WHITE ANEMONE. 

’Tis the white anemone, fashioned so 
Like to the stars of the winter snow, 
First thinks, “If I come too soon, no 
doubt 

I shall seem but the snow that stayed 
too long, 

So ’tis I that will be Spring’s un¬ 
guessed scout, ’ ’ 

And wide she wanders the woods 
among. 

Then, from out of the mossiest hiding- 
places, 

Smile meek moonlight-colored faces 


226 Poems for Children 


Of pale primroses puritan, 

In maiden sisterhood demure; 

Each virgin floweret faint and wan 
With the bliss of her own sweet breath 
so pure. 

Owen Meredith, 

FLOWERS. 

I will not have the mad Clytie, 
Whose head is turned by the sun; 
The tulip is a courtly quean, 

Whom, therefore, I will shun: 

The cowslip is a country wench, 

The violet is a nun;— 

But I will woo the dainty rose, 

The queen of every one. 

The pea is but a wanton witch, 

In too much haste to wed, 

And clasps her rings on every hand; 

The wolfsbane I should dread; 

Nor will I dreary rosemarye, 

That always mourns the dead; 

But I will woo the dainty rose, 

With her cheeks of tender red. 

The lily is all in white, like a saint, 
And so is no mate for me; 

And the daisy’s cheek is tipped with a 
blush, 

She is of such low degree; 

Jasmine is sweet, and has many loves, 
And the broom’s betrothed to the 

bee;— 

But I will plight with the dainty rose, 
For fairest of all is she. 

Thomas Hood. 

THE ROSE. 

A rose, as fair as ever saw the North, 
Grew in a little garden all alone; 

A sweeter flower did Nature ne’er put 
forth, 

Nor fairer garden yet was never 
known: 


The maidens danced about it morn 
and noon, 

And learned bards of it their ditties 
made; 

The nimble fairies by the pale-faced 
moon 

Watered the root and kissed her 
pretty shade. 

But well-a-day!—the gardener care¬ 
less grew; 

The maids and fairies both were kept 
away, 

And in a drought the caterpillars 
threw 

Themselves upon the bud and every 
spray. 

God shield the stock! If heaven 
send no supplies, 

The fairest blossom of the garden 
dies. 

William Browne. 


THE RHODORA. 

In May, when sea-winds pierced our 
solitudes, 

I found the fresh Rhodora in the 
woods, 

Spreading its leafless blooms in a 
damp nook, 

To please the desert and the sluggish 
brook: 

The purple petals, fallen in the pool. 
Made the black waters with their 
beauty gay; 

Here might the red-bird come his 
plumes to cool, 

And court the flower that cheapens 
his array. 

Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why 

This charm is wasted on the earth 
and sky, 

Dear, tell them, that if eyes were 
made for seeing, 

Then beauty is its own excuse for 
being. 


Fields and Woods 


Why thou were there, O rival of the 
rose! 

I never thought to ask; I never 
knew, 

But in my simple ignorance suppose 
The self-same Power that brought 
me there, brought you. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson . 


THE DEATH OF THE FLOWERS. 

The melancholy days are come, the 
saddest of the year, 

Of wailing winds, and naked woods, 
and meadows brown and sear. 

Heaped in the hollows of the grove, 
the withered leaves lie dead; 

They rustle to the eddying gust, and 
to the rabbits ’ tread. 

The robin and the wren are flown, 
and from the shrubs the jay, 

And from the wood-tops calls the 
crow, through all the gloomy day. 

Where are the flowers, the fair young 
flowers that lately sprang and 
stood 

In brighter light and softer airs, a 
beauteous sisterhood ? 

Alas! they all are in their graves, the 
gentle race of flowers 

Are lying in their lowly beds, with the 
fair and good of ours. 

The rain is falling where they lie, but 
the cold November rain, 

Calls not, from out the gloomy earth, 
the lovely ones again. 

The wind-flower and the violet, they 
perished long ago, 

And the brier-rose and the orchid died 
amid the summer glow; 

But on the hill the golden-rod, and 
the aster in the wood, 

And the yellow sunflower by the brook 
in autumn beauty stood, 


227 

Till fell the frost from the clear cold 
heaven, as falls the plague on 
men, 

And the brightness of their smile was 
gone, from upland, glade, and 
glen. 

And now when comes the calm mild 
day, as still such days will come, 

To call the squirrel and the bee from 
out their winter home; 

When the sound of dropping nuts is 
heard, though all the trees are 
still, 

And twinkle in the smoky light the 
waters of the rill, 

The south wind searches for the flow¬ 
ers whose fragrance late he bore, 

And sighs to find them in the wood 
and by the stream no more. 

And then I think of one who in her 
youthful beauty died, 

The fair, meek blossom that grew up 
and faded by my side; 

In the cold moist earth we laid her, 
when the forest cast the leaf, 

And we wept that one so lovely should 
have a life so brief: 

Yet not unmeet it was that one, like 
that young friend of ours, 

So gentle and so beautiful, should 
perish with the flowers. 

William Cidlen Bryant. 


HIE AWAY. 

Hie away, hie away! 

Over bank and over brae, 

Where the copsewood is the greenest, 
Where the fountains glisten sheenest, 
Where the lady ferns grow strongest, 
Where the morning dew lies longest, 
Where the blackcock sweetest sips it, 
Where the fairy latest trips it: 


228 


Poems for Children 


Hie to haunts right seldom seen, 
Lovely, lonesome, cool, and green; 
Over bank and over brae, 

Hie away, hie away! 

Walter Scott. 


HUNTING SONG. 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 

On the mountain dawns the day; 

All the jolly chase is here, 

With hawk and horse and hunting- 
spear ! 

Hounds are in their couples yelling, 
Hawks are whistling, horns are knell¬ 
ing, 

Merrily, merrily, mingle they. 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 

The mist has left the mountain gray, 
Springlets in the dawn are steaming, 
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming, 
And foresters have busy been 
To trace the buck in thicket green; 
Now we come to chant our lay, 
“Waken, lords and ladies gay.” 

Waken, lords and ladies gay, 

To the greenwood haste away; 

We can show you where he lies, 

Fleet of foot and tall of size; 

We can show the marks he made, 
When ’gainst the oak his antlers 
fray’d; 

You shall see him brought to bay. 
“Waken, lords and ladies gay.” 

Walter Scott . 

A-HUNTING WE WILL GO. 

The dusky night rides down the sky, 
And ushers in the morn; 

The hounds all join in glorious cry, 
The huntsman winds his horn. 

And a-liunting we will go. 


The wife around her husband throws 
Her arms to make him stay: 

“My dear, it rains, it hails, it blows; 
You cannot hunt to-day.” 

Yet a-hunting we will go. 

Away they fly to ’scape the rout, 
Their steeds they soundly switch; 

Some are thrown in, and some thrown 
out, 

And some thrown in the ditch. 

Yet a-hunting we will go. 

Sly Reynard now like lightning flies, 
And sweeps across the vale; 

And when the hounds too near he 
spies, 

He drops his bushy tail. 

Then a-hunting we will go. 

Fond echo seems to like the sport, 
And join the jovial cry; 

The woods, the hills, the sound retort, 
And music fills the sky, 

When a-hunting we do go. 

At last his strength to faintness worn, 
Poor Reynard ceases flight; 

Then, hungry, homeward we return, 
To feast away the night, 

And a-drinking we do go. 

Ye jovial hunters in the morn 
Prepare then for the chase; 

Rise at the sounding of the horn, 

And health with sport embrace 
When a-hunting we do go. 

Henry Fielding. 

THE HUNTER'S SONG. 

Rise! Sleep no more! ’Tis a noble 
morn! 

The dews hang thick on the fringed 
thorn, 

And the frost shrinks back, like a 
beaten hound, 

Under the steaming, steaming ground. 


Fields and Woods 


Behold where the billowy clouds flow 
by, 

And leave us alone in the clear gray 
sky! 

Our horses are ready and steady,— 
So, ho! 

I’m gone like a dart from the Tartar’s 
bow. 

Hark , luark! who calleth the maiden 
morn 

From her sleep in the woods and the 
stubble cornf 

The horn—the horn! 

The merry sweet ring of the hunter’s 
horn! 

Sound, sound the horn! To the 
hunter good 

What’s the gully deep, or the roaring 
flood? 

Bight o’er he bounds, as the wild stag 
bounds, 

At the heels of his swift, sure, silent 
hounds. 

Oh! what delight can a mortal lack, 

When he once is firm on his horse’s 
back, 

With his stirrups short, and his snaffle 
strong; 

And the blast of the horn for his 
morning song! 

Hark, hark! Now home! and dream 
till morn 

Of the bold sweet sound of the hunt¬ 
er’s horn! 

The horn—the horn! 

Oh, the sound of all sounds is the 
hunter’s horn! 

Barry Cornwall . 


THE HUNT IS UP. 

The hunt is up, the hunt is up, 

And it is well-nigh day; 

And Harry our king is gone hunting 
To bring his deer to bay. 


229 

The east is- bright with morning light, 
And darkness it is fled; 

And the merry horn wakes up the 
morn 

To leave his idle bed. 

Behold the skies with golden dyes 
Are glowing all around; 

The grass is green, and so are the 
treen 

All laughing at the sound. 

The horses snort to be at sport, 

The dogs are running free, 

The woods rejoice at the merry noise 
Of Hey tantara tee ree! 

The sun is glad to see us clad 
All in our lusty green, 

And smiles in the sky as he riseth high 
To see and to be seen. 

Awake all men, I say again, 

Be merry as you may; 

For Harry our king is gone hunting, 
To bring his deer to bay. 

Unknown. 


UP, UP! YE DAMES AND 
LASSES GAY! 

Up, up! ye dames and lasses gay! 

To the meadows trip away. 

’Tis you must tend the flocks this 
morn, 

And scare the small birds from the 
corn, 

Not a soul at home may stay: 

For the shepherds must go 
With lance and bow 
To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day. 

Leave the hearth and leave the house 
To the cricket and the mouse; 

Find grannam out a sunny seat, 

With babe and lambkin at her feet. 


Poems for Children 

l 


2 3 ° 

Not a soul at home may stay: 

For the shepherds must go 
With lance and bow 
To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge . 


A HAWKING PARTY IN THE 
OLDEN TIME. 

Hark ! hark! the merry warder’s horn 
Far o’er the wooded hills is borne, 

And then out breaks a general din 
From those without, as those within 
Upon the terrace steps are seen 
In such a bright array! 


The kenneled hounds’ long bark is 
heard, 

The falconer talking to his bird, 

The neighing steeds, the angry word 
Of grooms impatient there. 

But soon the bustle is dismissed, 

The falconer sets on every wrist 
A hooded hawk, that’s stroked and 
kissed 

By knight and lady fair. 


And sitting in their saddles free, 

The brave, the fair of high degree, 
Forth rides that gallant company, 
Each with a bird on hand; 

And falconers with their hawking 
gear, 

And other birds, bring up the rear, 
And country-folk from far and near 
Fall in and join the band. 


And merrilj'' thus in shine and shade, 
Gay glancing through the forest glade, 
On rides the noble cavalcade, 

To moorlands wild and grey; 
And then the noble sport is high; 

The jess is loosed, the hood thrown by; 
And “leurre!” the jolly falconers cry, 
And wheeling round the falcons fly 
Impatient of their prey. 

A moment and the quarry’s ta’en, 
The falconer’s cry sounds forth amain, 
The true hawk soars and soars again, 
Nor once the game is missed! 

And thus the jocund day is spent, 

In joyous sport and merriment: 

And baron old were well content 
To fell his wood, and pawn his rent, 
For the hawk upon his wrist. 

Oh, falcon proud, and goshawk gay, 
Your pride of place has passed away, 
The lone wood is your home by day, 
Your resting perch by night; 

The craggy rock your castle-tower. 
The gay green wood your “ ladies’ 
bower, ’ ’ 

Your own wild will the master power 
That can control your flight! 

Yet, noble bird, old fame is thine, 

Still liv’st thou in the minstrel’s line; 
Still in old pictures art the sign 
Of high and pure degree; 

And still, with kindling hearts we 
read, 

How barons came to Runnymede, 
Falcon on wrist, to do the deed 
That made all England free! 

Mary Howitt. 


VIII 


Home 


HOME SONG. 

Stay, stay at home, my heart, and 
rest; 

Home-keeping hearts are happiest, 
For those that wander they know 
not where 

Are full of trouble and full of care, 
To stay at home is best. 

Weary and homesick and distressed, 
They wander cast, they wander west, 
And are baffled, and beaten and 
blown about 

By the winds of the wilderness of 
doubt; 

To stay at home is best. 

Then stay at home, my heart, and 
rest; 

The bird is safest in its nest : 

0 ’er all that flutter their wings and 

fly 

A hawk is hovering in the sky; 

To stay at home is best. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow . 

THE ECHOING GREEN. 

The sun doth arise 
And make happy the skies; 

The merry bells ring 
To welcome the spring; 

The skylark and thrush, 

The birds of the bush, 

Sing louder around 
To the bells ’ cheerful sound, 
While our sports shall be seen 
On the echoing green. 


Old John with white hair 
Does laugh away care, 

Sitting under the oak 
Among the old folk. 

They laugh at our play 
And soon they all say: 

“Such, such, were the joys 
When we, all girls and boys, 

Ill our youth-time were seen 
On the echoing green .’’ 

Till, the little ones, weary, 

No more can be merry; 

The sun doth descend, 

And our sports have an end. 
Round the laps of their mothers, 
Many sisters and brothers, 

Like birds in their nest, 

Are ready for rest; 

And sport no more seen 
On the echoing green. 

William Blake. 


A WISH. 

Mine be a cot beside a hill; 

A beehive’s hum shall soothe my 
ear; 

A willowy brook that turns a mill 
With many a fall, shall linger near. 

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch, 
Shall twitter from her clay-built 
nest; 

Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, 
And share my meal, a welcome 
guest. 


Poems for Children 


232 

Around my ivied porch shall spring, 
Each fragrant flower that drinks 
the dew; 

And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing 
In russet gown and apron blue. 

The village-church among the trees, 
Where first our marriage vows were 
given, 

With merry peals shall swell the breeze 
And point with taper spire to 
Heaven. 

Samuel Rogers. 

PLEASANT THINGS. 

—’Tis sweet to hear 
At midnight on the blue and moon¬ 
lit deep 

The song and oar of Adria’s gondo¬ 
lier, 

By distance mellowed, o’er the wa¬ 
ters sweep; 

’Tis sweet to see the evening star 
appear; 

’Tis sweet to listen as the night 
winds creep 

From leaf to leaf, ’tis sweet to view 
on high 

The rainbow, bared on ocean, span 
the sky. 

’Tis sweet to hear the watch dog’s 
honest bark, 

Bay deep-mouth’d welcome as we 
draw near home; 

’Tis sweet to know there is an eye will 
mark 

Our coming, and look brighter when 
we come; 

’Tis sweet to be awakened by the lark, 
Or lull’d by falling waters; sweet 
the hum 

Of bees, the voice of girls, the songs of 
birds, 

The lisp of children, and their 
earliest words. 

George Gordon Byron. 


A TERNARIE OF LITTLES. 

A little saint best fits a little shrine, 

A little prop best fits a little vine; 

As my small cruse best fits my little 
wine. 

A little seed best fits a little soil, 

A little trade best fits a little toil; 

As my small jar best fits my little oil. 

A little bin best fits a little bread, 

A little garland fits a little head; 

As my small stuff best fits my little 
shed. 

A little hearth best fits my little fire, 

A little chapel fits a little choir ; 

As my small bell best fits my little 
spire. 

A little stream best fits a little boat, 

A little lead best fits a little float; 

As my small pipe best fits my little 
note. 

Robert Herrick. 

HAME, HAME, HAME. 

Hame, hame, hame, 0 hame fain wad 
I be— 

0 hame, hame, hame, to my ain 
countree! 

When the flower is i ’ the bud and the 
leaf is on the tree, 

The lark shall sing me hame in my ain 
countree; 

Hame, hame, hame, 0 hame fain wad 
I be— 

0 hame, hame, hame, to my ain coun¬ 
tree! 

The green leaf o’ loyaltie’s beginning 
for to fa’, 

The bonnie White Rose it is wither¬ 
ing an’ a’; 


Home 233 


But I’ll water ’t wi’ the blude of 
usurping tyrannie, 

An’ green it will graw in my ain 
countree. 

0, there’s nocht now frae ruin my 
country can save, 

But the keys o’ kind heaven, to open 
the grave; 

That a’ the noble martyrs wha died 
for loyaltie 

May rise again an’ fight for their ain 
countree. 

The great now are gane, a’ wha ven¬ 
tured to save, 

The new grass is springing on the tap 
o’ their grave; 

But the sun through the mirk blinks 
blithe in my e’e, 

“I’ll shine on ye yet in your ain 
countree.” 

Ilame, hame, hame, 0 hame fain wad 
I be— 

0 hame, hame, hame, to my ain coun¬ 
tree ! 

Allan Cunningham . 

HOME, SWEET HOME! 

From “ Clari, the Maid of Milan ” 

’Mid pleasures and palaces though we 
may roam, 

Be it ever so humble, there’s no place 
like home; 

A charm from the sky seems to hallow 
us there, 

Which, seek through the world, is 
ne’er met with elsewhere. 

Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home! 

There’s no place like Home! there’s 
no place like Home! 

An exile from home, splendor dazzles 
in vain; 

O, give me my lowly thatched cottage 
again! 


The birds singing gayly, that came at 
my call,— 

Give me them,—and the peace of 
mind, dearer than all! 

Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home! 

There’s no place like Home! there’s 
no place like Home! 

How sweet ’tis to sit ’neath a fond 
father’s smile, 

And the cares of a mother to soothe 
and beguile! 

Let others delight mid new pleasures 
to roam, 

But give me, oh, give me, the pleasures 
of home! 

Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home! 

There’s no place like Home! there’s 
no place like Home! 

To thee I’ll return, overburdened with 
care; 

The heart’s dearest solace will smile 
on me there; 

No more from that cottage again will 
I roam; 

Be it ever so humble, there’s no place 
like home. 

Home, Home, sweet, sweet Home! 

There’s no place like Home! there’s 
no place like Home! 

John Howard Payne. 

HIS GRANGE, OR PRIVATE 
WEALTH. 

Though clock 

To tell how night draws hence, I’ve 
none, 

A cock 

I have to sing how day draws on: 

I have 

A maid, my Prue, by good luck sent, 

To save 

That little, Pates me gave or lent: 

A hen 


234 


Poems for Children 


I keep, which, creeping day by day, 

Tells when 

She goes her long white eggs to lay: 

A goose 

I have, which, with jealous care, 

Lets loose 

Her tongue, to tell what danger’s 
near: 


A lamb 

I keep, tame, with my morsels fed, 

Whose dam 

An orphan left him lately dead: 

A cat 

I keep, that plays about my house, 

Grown fat 

With eating many a miching mouse: 

To these 

A Tracy * I do keep, whereby 

I please 

The more my rural privacy: 

Which are 

But toys, to give my heart some ease. 

Where care 

None is, slight things do slightly 
please. 

Robert Herrick. 


THE OLD CLOCK ON THE 
STAIRS. 

Somewhat back from the village 
street 

Stands the old-fashioned country seat. 
Across its antique portico 
Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw; 
And from its station in the hall 
An ancient time-piece says to all— 
“For ever—never! 

Never—for ever! ’ ’ 

By day its voice is low and light; 

But in the silent dead of night, 
Distinct as a passing footstep’s fall 
It echoes along the vacant hall, 

* His spaniel. 


Along the ceiling, along the floor, 
And seems to say, at each chamber 
door— 

“For ever—never! 

Never—for ever!” 

Through days of sorrow and of mirth, 
Through days of death and days of 
birth 

Through every swift vicissitude 
Of changeful time, unchanged it has 
stood, 

And as if, like God, it all things saw, 
It calmly repeats those words of awe— 
“For ever—never! 

Never—for ever! ’ ’ 

In that mansion used to be 
Free-hearted Hospitality; 

His great fires up the chimney roared; 
The stranger feasted at his board; 

But, like the skeletons at the feast, 
That warning time-piece never ceased— 
“For ever—never! 

Never—for ever!” 

There groups of merry children 
played, 

There youths and maidens dreaming 
strayed; 

Oh precious hours! Oh golden prime, 
And affluence of love and time! 

Even as a miser counts his gold, 

Those hours the ancient time-piece 
told— 

“For ever—never! 

Never—for ever!” 

From that chamber, clothed in white, 
The bride came forth on her wedding 
night; 

There, in that silent room below, 

The dead lay in his shroud of snow; 
And in the hush that followed the 
prayer, 

Was heard the old clock on the stair— 
“For ever—never! 

Never—for ever!” 


Home 


All are scattered now and fled, 

Some are married, some are dead; 

And when I ask, with throbs of pain, 
‘ ‘ Ah! when shall they all meet again! ’ ’ 
As in the days long since gone by, 
The ancient time-piece makes reply— 
“For ever—never! 

Never—for ever! ’ ’ 


Never here—for ever there, 

Where all parting, pain, and care, 
And death, and time shall disappear,— 
For ever there, but never here! 

The horologe of Eternity 
Sayeth this incessantly— 

< ‘ For ever—never! 

Never—for ever! ’ ’ 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow . 


MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME. 

The sun shines bright in the old Ken¬ 
tucky home; 

’Tis summer, the darkeys are gay; 

The corn-top’s ripe, and the meadow’s 
in the bloom, 

W 7 hile the birds make music all the 
day. 

The young folks roll on the little cabin 
floor, 

All merry, all happy and bright; 

By-’n’-by hard times comes a-knock- 
ing at the door:— 

Then my old Kentucky home, good¬ 
night ! 

Weep no more, my lady, 

0, weep no more to-day! 

W T e will sing one song for the old 
Kentucky home, 

For the old Kentucky home, far 
away. 


2 35 

They hunt no more for the ’possum 
and the coon, 

On the meadow, the hill, and the 
shore; 

They sing no more by the glimmer of 
the moon, 

On the bench by the old cabin door. 

The day goes by like a shadow o ’er the 
heart, 

With sorrow, where all was delight; 

The time has come when the darkeys 
have to part:— 

Then my old Kentucky home, good¬ 
night! 

The head must bow, and the back will 
have to bend, 

Wherever the darkey may go; 

A few more days and the troubles all 
will end, 

In the field where the sugar-canes 
grow. 

A few more days for to tote the weary 
load,— 

No matter, ’twill never be light; 

A few more days till we totter on the 
road:— 

Then my old Kentucky home, good¬ 
night ! 

Weep no more, my lady, 

0, weep no more to-day! 

We will sing one song for the old 
Kentucky home, 

For the old Kentucky home, far 
away. 

Stephen Collins Foster. 


THE INGLE-SIDE. 

It’s rare to see the morning bleeze 
Like a bonfire frae the sea, 

It’s fair to see the burnic kiss 
The lip o’ the flowery lea; 


236 


Poems for Children 


An’ fine it is on green hillside, 

Where hums the bonnie bee, 

But rarer, fairer, finer far 
Is the ingle-side for me. 

Glens may be gilt wi’ gowans rare, 
The birds may fill the tree; 

An’ haughs hae a’ the scented ware 
The simmer-growth can gie: 

But the canty hearth where cronies 
meet, 

An’ the darling o’ our e’e, 

That makes to us a warl’ complete: 
Oh, the ingle-side for me! 

Hew Ainslee. 


THE OLD ARM-CHAIR. 

I love it—I love it, and who shall 
dare 

To chide me for loving that old arm¬ 
chair ! 

I’ve treasured it long as a sainted 
prize— 

I’ve bedewed it with tears, I’ve em¬ 
balmed it with sighs; 

’Tis bound by a thousand bands to my 
heart, 

Not a tie will break, not a link will 
start; 

Would you learn the spell ?—A mother 
sat there, 

And a sacred thing is that old arm¬ 
chair. 

In childhood’s hour I lingered near, 

The hallowed seat with listening ear; 

And gentle words that mother would 
give, 

To fit me to die, and teach me to live. 

She told me shame would never betide 

With truth for my creed, and God for 
my Guide; 

She taught me to lisp my earliest 
prayer, 

As I knelt beside that old arm-chair. 


I sat and watched her many a day. 

When her eyes were dim and her locks 
were grey, 

And I almost worshipped her when 
she smiled 

And turned from her Bible to bless 
her child. 

Years rolled on, but the last one sped, 

My idol was shattered—my earth-star 
fled; 

I learnt how much the heart can bear, 

When I saw her die in that old arm¬ 
chair. 


’Tis past! ’tis past! but I gaze on it 
now 

With quivering breath and throbbing 
brow; 

’Twas there she nursed me—’twas 
there she died, 

And memory flows with lava tide! 

Say it is folly, and deem me weak, 

While the scalding tears run down my 
cheek; 

But I love it—I love it, and cannot 
tear 

My soul from my mother’s old arm¬ 
chair. 

Eliza Cook. 


SONG OF THE FIRE. 

’Tis a sad sight 
To see the year dying, 

When Autumn’s last wind 
Sets the yellow Avoods sighing: 
Sighing, 0 sighing. 


When such a time cometh 
I do retire 
Into an old room 
Beside a bright fire: 

0 pile a bright fire! 


Home 


2 37 


And there I sit, 

Reading old things, 

Of knights and ladies, 

While the wind sings— 

0 drearily sings! 

I never look out 
Nor attend to the blast; 

For all to be seen 

Is the leaves falling fast; 
Falling, falling! 

But close at the hearth, 

Like a cricket sit I 

Reading of summer 
And chivalry— 

Gallant chivalry! 

******* 

Then the clouds part, 

Swallows soaring between; 

The spring is awake, 

And the meadows are green! 

I jump up like mad, 

Break the old pipe in twain, 

And away to the meadows, 

The meadows again. 

Edivard Fitzgerald. 


A CEREMONY FOR CANDLEMAS 

DAY. 

Down with the rosemary and so 
Down with the bays and mistletoe; 
Down with the holly, ivy, all 
Wherewith ye dressed the Christmas 
hall; 

That so the superstitious find 
No one least branch there left behind; 
For look, how many leaves then be 
Neglected there, maids, trust to me, 
So many goblins you shall see. 

Robert Herrick. 


OLD CHRISTMAS. 

Now, he who knows old Christmas, 

He knows a carle of worth; 

For he is as good a fellow, 

As any upon the earth. 

He comes warm-cloaked and coated, 
And buttoned up to the chin; 

And soon as he comes a-nigh the door, 
We open and let him in. 

We know that he will not fail us, 

So we sweep the hearth up clean; 

We set him the old armed-chair, 

And a cushion whereon to lean. 

And with sprigs of holly and ivy 
We make the house look gay, 

Just out of an old regard to him,— 
For ’twas his ancient way. 

We broach the strong ale barrel, 

And bring out wine and meat; 

And thus we have all things ready, 
Our dear old friend to greet. 

And soon as the time wears round, 
The good old carle we see, 

Coming a-near—for a creditor 
Less punctual is than he. 

He comes with a cordial voice, 

That does one good to hear; 

He shakes one heartily by the hand, 
As he hath done many a year. 

And after the little children 
He asks in a cheerful tone, 

Jack, Kate, and little Annie,— 

He remembers them every one! 

What a fine old fellow he is! 

With his faculties all as clear, 

And his heart as warm and light, 

As a man’s in his fortieth year! 


Poems for Children 


238 

What a fine old fellow, in troth! 

Not one of your griping elves, 

Who, with plenty of money to spare, 
Think only about themselves. 

Not he! for he loveth the children, 
And holiday begs for all; 

And comes with his pockets full of 
gifts, 

For the great ones and the small. 

With a present for every servant,— 
For in giving he doth not tire,— 
From the red-faced jovial butler, 

To the girl by the kitchen fire. 

And he tells us witty old stories, 

And singeth with might and main; 
And we talk of the old man’s visit, 
Till the day that he comes again. 

Oh! he is a kind old fellow, 

For though the beef be dear, 
lie giveth the parish paupers, 

A good dinner once a year. 

And all the workhouse children, 

He sets them down in a row, 

And giveth them rare plum pudding, 
And twopence apiece also! 

Oh, could you have seen those paupers, 
Have heard those children young, 
You would wish with them, that 
Christmas 

Came often and tarried long! 

He must be a rich old fellow,— 

What money he gives away! 

There is not a lord in England 
Could equal him any day! 

Good luck unto old Christmas, 

And long life, let us sing, 

For he doth more good unto the poor, 
Than many a crowned king! 

Mary Howitt. 


CHRISTMAS IN THE OLDEN 
TIME. 

Heap on more wood!—the wind is 
chill; 

But let it whistle as it will, 

We’ll keep our Christmas merry still. 


Each age has deem’d the new-born 
year 

The fittest time for festal cheer: 

And well our Christian sires of old 
Loved when the year its course had 
roll’d, 

And brought blithe Christmas back 
again, 

With all his hospitable train. 
Domestic and religious rite 
Gave honour to the holy night; 

On Christmas Eve the bells were 
rung; 

On Christmas Eve the mass was sung: 
That only night in all the year, 

Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear. 
The damsel donn’d her kirtle sheen; 
The hall was dress’d with holly green; 
Forth to the wood did merry-men go, 
To gather in the mistletoe. 

Then open’d wide the Baron’s hall 
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all; 

Power laid his rod of rule aside, 

And Ceremony doff’d his pride. 

The heir, with roses in his shoes, 

That night might village partner 
choose; 

The lord, underogating, share 
The vulgar game of ‘ ‘ post and pair. ’ ’ 
All hail’d, with uncontroll’d delight 
And general voice, the happy night, 
That to the cottage, as the Crown, 
Brought tidings of salvation down. 


The fire, with well-dried logs sup¬ 
plied, 

Went roaring up the chimney wide; 


Home 


The huge hall-table’s oaken face, 
Scrubb’d till it shone, the day to 
grace, 

Bore then upon its massive board 
No mark to part the squire and lord. 
Then was brought in the lusty brawn, 
By old blue-coated serving-man; 

Then the grim boar’s head frown’d on 
high, _ 

Crested with bays and rosemary. 

Well can the green-garb’d ranger tell, 
How, when, and where, the monster 
fell; 

What dogs before his death he tore, 
And all the baiting of the boar. 

The wassail round, in good brown 
bowls, 

Garnish’d with ribbons, blithely 
trowls. 

There the huge sirloin reek’d; hard by 
Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas 
pie; 

Nor fail’d old Scotland to produce, 

At such high tide, her savoury goose. 
Then came the merry maskers in, 

And carols roar’d with blithesome 
din; 

If unmelodious was the song, 

It was a hearty note, and strong. 

Who lists may in their mumming see 
Traces of ancient mystery; 

White shirts supplied the masquerade, 
And smutted cheeks the visors made;— 
But, 0! what maskers, richly dight, 
Can boast of bosoms half so light! 
England was merry England, when 
Old Christmas brought his sports 
again. 

’Twas Christmas broach’d the mighti¬ 
est ale; 

’Twas Christmas told the merriest 
tale; 

A Christmas gambol oft could cheer 
The poor man’s heart through half 
the year. 

Walter Scott. 


2 39 

CEREMONIES FOR CHRISTMAS. 

Come, bring with a noise, 

My merry, merry boys, 

The Christmas log to the firing, 
While my good dame she 
Bids ye all be free, 

And drink to your heart’s desiring. 

With the last year’s brand, 

Light the new block, and 
For good success in his spending, 

On your psalteries play 
That sweet luck may 
Come while the log is a-tending. 

Drink now the strong beer, 

Cut the white loaf here, 

The while the meat is a-shredding; 
For the rare mince-pie, 

And the plums stand by, 

To fill the paste that’s a-kneading. 

Robert Herrick . 


THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of 
the plain, 

Where health and plenty cheered the 
labouring swain; 

Where smiling spring its earliest visits 
paid, 

And parting summer’s lingering 
bloom delayed; 

Dear lovely bowers of innocence and 
ease, 

Seats of my youth, when every sport 
could please! 

How often have I loitered o’er thy 
green, 

Where humble happiness endeared 
each scene; 

How often have I paused on every 
charm— 

The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, 

The never-failing brook, the busy mill, 


240 Poems for Children 


The decent church that topp’d the 
neighbouring hill, 

The hawthorn-bush, with seats be¬ 
neath the shade, 

For talking age and whispering lovers 
made! 

How often have I blessed the coming 
day, 

When toil remitting lent its turn to 
play, 

And all the village train, from labour 
free, 

Led up their sports beneath the 
spreading tree: 

While many a pastime, circled in the 
shade, 

The young contended as the old sur¬ 
veyed ; 

And many a gambol frolicked o’er the 
ground, 

And sleights of art and feats of 
strength went round; 

And still, as each repeated pleasure 
tired, 

Succeeding sports the mirthful band 
inspired; 

The dancing pair that simply sought 
renown, 

By holding out to tire each other 
down; 

The swain, mistrustless of his smutted 
face, 

While secret laughter titter’d round 
the place; 

The bashful virgin’s side-long looks of 
love, 

The matron’s glance that would those 
looks reprove. 

These were thy charms, sweet village! 
sports like these, 

With sweet succession, taught e’en toil 
to please; 

These round thy bowers their cheerful 
influence shed, 

These were thy charms—but all these 
charms are fled. 

Oliver Goldsmith . 


FATHER IS COMING. 

The clock is on the stroke of six, 

The father’s work is done; 

Sweep up the hearth, and mend the 
fire, 

And put the kettle on: 

The wild night-wind is blowing cold, 
’Tis dreary crossing o’er the wold. 

He is crossing 0 ’er the wold apace, 

He is stronger than the storm; 

He does not feel the cold, not he, 

His heart it is so warm; 

For father’s heart is stout and true 
As ever human bosom knew. 

He makes all toil, all hardship light; 

Would all men were the same! 

So ready to be pleased, so kind, 

So very slow to blame! 

Folks need not be unkind, austere; 
For love hath readier will than fear. 

Nay, do not close the shutters, child, 
For far along the lane 
The little window looks, and he 
Can see it shining plain; 

I’ve heard him say he loves to mark 
The cheerful firelight, through the 
dark. 

And we’ll do all that father likes; 

His wishes are so few; 

Would they were more; that every 
hour 

Some wish of his I knew! 

I’m sure it makes a happy day, 

When I can please him any way. 

I know he’s coming by this sign, 
That baby’s almost wild, 

See how he laughs, and crows, and 
stares— 

Heaven bless the merry child! 

His father’s self in face and limb, 
And father’s heart is strong in him. 


Home 


Ilark! hark! I hear his footsteps now, 
He ’s through the garden gate; 

Bun, little Bess, and ope the door, 
And do not let him wait. 

Shout, baby, shout! and clap thy 
hands, 

For father on the threshold stands. 

Mary Howitt. 

BABY MAY. 

Cheeks as soft as July peaches; 

Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches 
Poppies paleness; round large eyes 
Ever great with new surprise. 
Minutes filled with shadeless gladness, 
Minutes just as brimmed with sadness, 
Happy smiles and wailing cries, 
Crows and laughs and tearful eyes. 
Lights and shadows swifter form 
Than on wind-swept autumn corn, 
Ever some new tiny notion, 

Making every limb all motion, 
Catching up of legs and arms, 
Throwings back and small alarms, 
Clutching fingers—straightening jerks, 
Twining feet, whose each toe works, 
Kickings up and straining risings, 
Mother’s ever new surprisings. 

Hands all wants, and looks all wonder 
At all things the heavens under. 

Tiny scorns of smiled reprovings, 
That have more of love than lovings, 
Mischiefs done with such a winning 
Archness, that we prize such sinning. 
Breakings dire of plates and glasses, 
Graspings small at all that passes, 
Pullings off of all that’s able 
To be caught from tray or table; 
Silences—small meditations, 

Deep as thoughts of cares for nations, 
Breaking into wisest speeches 
In a tongue that nothing teaches, 

All the thoughts of whose possessing 
Must be wooed to light by guessing; 
Slumbers—such sweet angel-seemiugs, 
That we’d ever have such dreamings, 


2 4 i 

Till from sleep we see thee breaking, 
And we’d always have thee waking; 
Wealth for which we know no meas¬ 
ure, 

Pleasure high above all pleasure, 
Gladness brimming over gladness, 

Joy in care—delight in sadness, 
Loveliness beyond completeness, 
Sweetness distancing all sweetness, 
Beauty all that beauty may be— 
That’s May Bennett, that’s my baby. 

William Cox Bennett. 


MY EARLY HOME. 

Here sparrows build upon the trees, 
And stockdove hides her nest; 

The leaves are winnowed by the breeze 
Into a calmer rest: 

The black-cap’s song was very sweet, 
That used the rose to kiss; 

It made the Paradise complete: 

My early home was this. 

The red-breast from the sweetbrier 
bush 

Dropped down to pick the worm; 
O11 the horse-chestnut sang the thrush, 
O ’er the house where I was born; 
The moonlight, like a shower of pearls, 
Fell o’er this “bower of bliss,” 
And on the bench sat boys and girls: 
My early home was this. 

The old house stooped just like a cave, 
Thatched o’er with mosses green; 
Winter around the walls would rave, 
But all was calm within; 

The trees are here all green again, 
Here bees the flowers still kiss, 

But flowers and trees seemed sweeter 
then: 

My early home was this. 

John Clare. 


24 2 


Poems for Children 


THE CANE-BOTTOMED CHAIR. 

In tattered old slippers that toast at 
the bars, 

And a ragged old jacket perfumed 
with cigars, 

Away from the world and its toils and 
its cares, 

I’ve a snug little kingdom up four 
pairs of stairs. 

To mount to this realm is a toil, to be 
sure, 

But the fire there is bright and the air 
rather pure; 

And the view I behold on a sunshiny 
day 

Is grand, through the chimney-pots 
over the way. 

This snug little chamber is crammed 
in all nooks 

"With worthless old knickknacks and 
silly old books, 

And foolish old odds and foolish old 
ends, 

Cracked bargains from brokers, cheap 
keepsakes from friends. 

Old armour, prints, pictures, pipes, 
china (all cracked), 

Old rickety tables, and chairs broken- 
backed ; 

A twopenny treasury, wondrous to 
see; 

What matter? ’tis pleasant to you, 
friend, and me. 

No better divan need the Sultan re¬ 
quire, 

Than the creaking old sofa that basks 
by the fire, 

And ’tis wonderful, surely, what mu¬ 
sic you get 

From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy 
spinet. 


That praying-rug came from a Turco¬ 
man’s camp; 

By Tiber once twinkled that brazen 
old lamp; 

A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has 
drawn: 

’Tis a murderous knife to toast muf¬ 
fins upon. 

Long, long through the hours, and the 
night, and the chimes, 

Here we talk of old books, and old 
friends, and old times: 

As we sit in a fog made of rich Lata- 
kie, 

This chamber is pleasant to you, 
friend, and me. 

But of all the cheap treasures that 
garnish my nest, 

There’s one that I love and I cherish 
the best; 

For the finest' of couches that’s padded 
with hair 

I never would change thee, my cane- 
bottomed chair. 

’Tis a bandy-legged, high-shouldered, 
worm-eaten seat, 

With a creaking old back, and twisted 
old feet; 

But since the fair morning when 
Fanny sat there, 

I bless thee and love thee, old cane- 
bottomed chair. 

If chairs have but feeling, in holding 
such charms, 

A thrill must have passed through 
your withered old arms! 

I looked, and I longed, and I wished 
in despair; 

I wished myself turned to a cane-bot¬ 
tomed chair. 



Home 


It was but a moment she sat in this 
place, 

She’d a scarf on her neck, and a smile 
on her face! 

A smile on her face, and a rose in her 
hair, 

And she sat there, and bloomed in my 
cane-bottomed chair. 

And so I have valued my chair ever 
since, 

Like the shrine of a saint, or the 
throne of a prince; 

Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet I 
declare, 

The queen of my heart and my cane- 
bottomed chair. 

When the candles burn low, and the 
company’s gone, 

In the silence of night as I sit here 
alone— 

I sit here alone, but we yet are a 
pair— 

My Fanny I see in my cane-bottomed 
chair. 

She comes from the past, and revisits 
my room; 

She looks as she then did, all beauty 
and bloom; 

So smiling and tender, so fresh and so 
fair, 

And jmnder she sits in my cane-bot¬ 
tomed chair. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 


THE BLIND HIGHLAND BOY. 

He ne’er had seen one earthly sight; 
The sun, the day; the stars, the night; 
Or tree, or butterfly, or flower, 

Or fish in stream, or bird in bower, 

Or woman, man, or child. 


243 

And yet he neither drooped nor pined, 
Nor had a melancholy mind; 

For God took pity on the boy, 

And was his friend; and gave him joy 
Of which we nothing know. 

His mother, too, no doubt, above 
Her other children him did love! 

For, was she here, or was she there, 
She thought of him with constant care, 
And more than mother’s love. 

And proud was she of heart, when, 
clad 

In crimson stockings, tartan plaid, 
And bonnet with a feather gay, 

To Kirk he on the Sabbath day, 

Went hand in hand with her. 

A dog, too, had he; not for need, 

But one to play with and to feed; 
Which would have led him, if bereft 
Of company or friends, and left 
Without a better guide. 

And then the bag-pipes he could blow; 
And thus from house to house would 
go, 

And all were pleased to hear and see; 
For none made sweeter melody 
Than did the poor blind boy. 

William Wordsworth. 


HEART'S CONTENT. 

‘‘ A sail ! a sail! Oh, whence away, 
And whither, o’er the foam? 

Good brother mariners, we pray, 

God speed you safely home! ” 
“Now wish us not so foul a wind, 
Until the fair be spent; 

For hearth and home we leave behind: 
We sail for Heart’s Content.” 


Poems for Children 


244 

“For Heart’s Content! And sail ye 
so, 

With canvas flowing free? 

But, pray you, tell us, if ye know, 
Where may that harbor be? 

For we that greet you, worn of time, 
Wave-racked, and tempest-rent, 

By sun and star, in every clime, 

Have searched for Heart’s Content. 
« 

‘ ‘ In every clime the world around, 
The waste of waters o’er; 

An El Dorado have we found, 

That ne’er was found before. 

The isles of spice, the lands of dawn, 
Where East and West are blent— 
All these our eyes have looked upon, 
But where is Heart’s Content? 

‘ ‘ Oh, turn again, while yet ye may, 
And ere the hearths are cold, 

And all the embers ashen-gray, 

By which ye sat of old, 

And dumb in death the loving lips 
That mourned as forth ye went 
To join the fleet of missing ships, 

In quest of Heart’s Content; 

‘ ‘ And seek again the harbor-lights, 
Which faithful fingers trim, 

Ere yet alike the days and nights 
Unto your eyes are dim! 

For woe, alas! to those that roam 
Till time and tide are spent, 

And win no more the port of home— 
The only Heart’s Content! ’ ’ 

Unknown. 


THE AULD HOUSE. 

Oh, the auld house, the auld house,— 
What though the rooms were wee? 
Oh, kind hearts were dwelling there, 
And bairnies fu’ 0’ glee; 


The wild rose and the jessamine 
Still hang upon the wa’: 

How mony cherished memories 
Do they sweet flowers reca’! 

Oh, the auld laird, the auld laird, 
Sae canty, kind, and crouse,— 

How mony did he welcome to 
His ain wee dear auld house; 

And the leddy too, sae genty, 

There sheltered Scotland’s heir, 
And clipped a lock wi’ her ain hand, 
Frae his lang yellow hair. 

The mavis still doth sweetly sing, 

The bluebells sweetly blaw, 

The bonny Earn’s clear winding still, 
But the auld house is awa’. 

The auld house, the auld house,— 
Deserted though ye be, 

There ne’er can be a new house 
Will seem sae fair to me. 

Still flourishing the auld pear-tree 
The bairnies liked to see; 

And 0I1, how often did they speir 
When ripe they a’ wad be! 

The voices sweet, the wee bit feet 
Aye rinnin ’ here and there, 

The merry shout—oh! whiles we greet 
To think we’ll hear nae mair. 

For they are a’ wide scattered now; 

Some to the Indies gane, 

And ane, alas! to her lang hame; 

Not here we’ll meet again. 

The kirkyard, the kirkyard! 

Wi ’ flowers o ’ every hue, 

Sheltered by the holly’s shade 
An’ the dark sombre yew. 

The setting sun, the setting sun! 

How glorious it gaed doon; 

The cloudy splendor raised our hearts 
To cloudless skies aboon. 


Home 


The auld dial, the auld dial! 

It tauld how time did pass; 

The wintry winds hae dung it doon, 
Now hid ’mang weeds and grass. 

Carolina Nairne. 


LOVE WILL FIND OUT THE WAY. 

Over the mountains 
And over the waves, 

Under the fountains 
And under the graves; 

Under floods that are deepest, 
Which Neptune obey, 

Over rocks that are steepest, 

Love will find out the way. 

Where there is no place 
For the glow-worm to lie, 

Where there is no space 
For receipt of a fly; 

Where the midge dares not venture 
Lest herself fast she lay, 

If Love come, he will enter 
And will find out the way. 

Unknown. 


THE COUNTRY PARSON. 

Near yonder copse, where once the 
garden smiled, 

And still where many a garden flower 
grows wild; 

There, where a few torn shrubs the 
place disclose, 

The village preacher’s modest man¬ 
sion rose. 

A man he was, to all the country dear, 

And passing rich with forty pounds a 
year, 

Remote from towns he ran his godly 
race, 

Nor e’er had changed, nor wished to 
change, his place; 


245 

Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for 
power 

By doctrines fashioned to the varying 
hour; 

Far other aims his heart had learnt to 
prize, 

More skilled to raise the wretched 
than to rise. 

His house was known to all the va¬ 
grant train, 

He chid their wanderings, but relieved 
their pain; 

The long-remembered beggar was his 
guest, 

Whose beard descending, swept his 
aged breast; 

The ruined spendthrift, now no longer 
proud, 

Claimed kindred there, and had his 
claims allowed, 

The broken soldier, kindly bid to stay, 

Sat by his fire, and talked the night 
away; 

Wept o’er his wounds, or, tales of 
sorrow done, 

Shouldered his crutch, and showed 
how fields were won. 

Pleased with his guests, the good man 
learned to glow, 

And quite forgot their vices in their 
woe; 

Careless their merits or their faults to 
scan, 

His pity gave ere charity began. 

Thus to relieve the wretched was his 
pride, 

And e’en his failings leaned to vir¬ 
tue ’s side; 

But in his duty prompt at every call, 

He watched and wept, he prayed and 
felt, for all. 

And, as a bird each fond endearment 
tries, 

To tempt its new-fledged offspring to 
the skies; 


Poems for Children 


246 

He tried each art, reproved each dull 
delay, 

Allured to brighter worlds, and led the 
way. 


Beside the bed where parting life was 
laid, 

And sorrow, guilt, and pains, by turns 
dismayed, 

The reverend champion stood. At his 
control, 

Despair and anguish fled the strug¬ 
gling soul; 

Comfort came down the trembling 
wretch to raise, 

And his last faltering accents whis¬ 
pered praise. 


At church with meek and unaffected 
grace, 

His looks adorned the? venerable place; 

Truth from his lips prevailed with 
double sway, 

And fools, who came to scoff, remained 
to pray. 

The service past, around the pious 
man, 

With steady zeal, each honest rustic 
ran; 

E’en children followed, with endear¬ 
ing wile, 

And plucked his gown, to share the 
good man’s smile, 

His ready smile a parent’s warmth 
expressed; 

Their welfare pleased him, and their 
cares distressed; 

To them his heart, his love, his griefs, 
were given, 

But all his serious thoughts had rest 
in heaven: 

As some tall cliff that lifts its awful 
form, 

Swells from the vale, and midway 
leaves the storm, 


Though round its breast the rolling 
clouds are spread, 

Eternal sunshine settles on its head. 

Oliver Goldsmith. 


THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 

Under a spreading chestnut tree 
The village smithy stands; 

The smith, a mighty man is he, 

With large and sinewy hands; 

And the muscles of his brawny arms 
Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long, 
His face is like the tan; 

His brow is wet with honest sweat, 

He earns whate’er he can, 

And looks the whole world in the face, 
For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, from morn till 
night, 

You can hear his bellows blow; 

You can hear him swing his heavy 
sledge, 

With measured beat and slow, 

Like a sexton ringing the village bell, 
When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school 
Look in at the open door; 

They love to see the flaming forge, 
And hear the bellows roar, 

And catch the burning sparks that fly 
Like chaff from a threshing-floor. 

He goes on Sunday to the church, 

And sits among his boys; 

He hears the parson pray and preach, 
He hears his daughter’s voice 
Singing in the village choir, 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 


Home 


247 


It sounds to him like her mother’s 
voice, 

Singing in Paradise! 

He needs must think of her once more, 
How in the grave she lies; 

And with his hard, rough hand he 
wipes 

A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling—rejoicing—sorrowing, 
Onward through life he goes; 

Each morning sees some task begun, 


Each evening sees its close; 
Something attempted, something done, 
Has earned a night’s repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy 
friend, 

For the lesson thou hast taught! 
Thus at the flaming forge of life 
Our fortunes must be wrought; 
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought! 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 


IX 


\ 

Insects, Birds, and Beasts 


/ e 


TO AN INSECT. 

I love to hear thine earnest voice, 
Wherever thou art hid, 

Thou testy little dogmatist, 

Thou pretty Katydid! 

Thou mindest me of gentlefolks,— 
Old gentlefolks are they,— 

Thou say’st an undisputed thing 
In such a solemn way. 

Thou art a female, Katydid! 

I know it by the trill 
That quivers through thy piercing 
notes, 

So petulant and shrill; 

I think there is a knot of you 
Beneath the hollow tree,— 

A knot of spinster Katydids,— 

Do Katydids drink tea? 

Oh, tell me where did Katy live, 

And what did Katy do? 

And was she very fair and young, 
And yet so wicked, too? 

Did Katy love a naughty man, 

Or kiss more cheeks than one? 

I warrant Katy did no more 
Than many a Kate has done. 

Dear me! I’ll tell you all about 
My fuss with little Jane, 

And Ann, with whom I used to walk 
So often down the lane, 

And all that tore their locks of black, 
Or wet their eyes of blue,— 

Pray tell me, sweetest Katydid, 

What did poor Katy do? 


Ah no! the living oak shall crash, 
That stood for ages still, 

The rock shall rend its mossy base 
And thunder down the hill, 

Before the little Katydid 
Shall add one word, to tell 
The mystic story of the maid 
Whose name she knows so well. 

Peace to the ever-murmuring race! 

And when the latest one 
Shall fold in death her feeble wings 
Beneath the autumn sun, 

Then shall she raise her fainting voice, 
And lift her drooping lid, 

And then the child of future years 
Shall hear what Katy did. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 


THE HUMBLE-BEE. 

Burly dozing humble-bee, 

Where thou art is clime for me. 

Let them sail for Porto Rique, 
Far-off heats through seas to seek; 

I will follow thee alone, 

Thou animated torrid zone! 

Zigzag steerer, desert cheerer, 

Let me chase thy waving lines; 
Keep me nearer, me thy hearer, 
Singing over shrubs and vines. 

Insect lover of the sun, 

Joy of thy dominion! 

Sailor of the atmosphere; 

Swimmer through the waves of air; 


Insects, Birds, and Beasts 


Voyager of light and noon; 
Epicurean of June; 

Wait, I prithee, till I come 
Within earshot of thy hum,— 

All without is martyrdom. 

When the south wind, in May days, 
With a net of shining haze 
Silvers the horizon wall, 

And with softness touching all, 

Tints the human countenance 
With a color of romance, 

And infusing subtle heats, 

Turns the sod to violets, 

Thou, in sunny solitudes, 

Rover of the underwoods, 

The green silence dost displace 
With thy mellow, breezy bass. 

Hot midsummer’s petted crone, 
Sweet to me thy drowsy tone 
Tells of countless sunny hours, 

Long days, and solid banks of flowers; 
Of gulfs of sweetness without bound 
In Indian wildernesses found; 

Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure, 
Firmest cheer, and birdlike pleasure. 

Aught unsavory or unclean 
Hath my insect never seen; 

But violets and bilberry bells, 
Maple-sap and daffodels, 

Grass with green flag half-mast high, 
Succory to match the sky, 

Columbine with horn of honey, 
Scented fern, and agrimony, 

Clover, catclifly, adder’s tongue 
And brier-roses, dwelt among; 

All beside was unknown waste, 

All was picture as he passed. 

Wiser far than human seer, 
Yellow-breeched philosopher! 

Seeing only what is fair, 

Sipping only what is sweet, 

Thou dost mock at fate and care, 
Leave the chaff, and take the wheat. 


2 49 

When the fierce northwestern blast 
Cools sea and land so far and fast, 
Thou already slumberest deep; 

Woe and want thou canst outsleep; 
Want and woe, which torture us, 

Thy sleep makes ridiculous. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 


TO A MOUSE. 

On Turning Her Nest With the Plow, 
November, 1785. 

Wee, sleekit, cow Tin’, tim’rous 

beast ie, 

O, what a panic’s in thy breastie! 
Thou need na start awa’ sae hasty, 
Wi’ bickering brattle! 

I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee, 
Wi’ murd’ring prattle! 

I’m truly sorry man’s dominion 
bias broken Nature’s social union, 
An’ justifies that ill opinion, 

Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor, earth-born com¬ 
panion, 

An’ fellow-mortal! 

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may 
thieve; 

What then? poor beastie, thou maun 
live! 

A daimen icker in a thrave 
’S a sma ’ request; 

I’ll get a blessin’ wi’ the laive, 

And never miss’t! 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin! 

Its silly wa’s the win’s are strewin’! 
An’ naething, now, to big a new ane, 
O’ foggage green! 

An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin’, 
Baith snell an ’ keen! 


Poems for Children 


2 5° 

Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ 
waste, 

An ’ weary winter comin ’ fast, 

An’ cozie here, beneath the blast, 
Thou thought to dwell,— 

Till, crash! the cruel coulter passed 
Out through thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o ’ leaves an ’ stibble 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! 
Now thou’s turned out, for a’ thy 
trouble, 

But house or hald, 

To thole the winter’s sleety dribble, 
An’ cranreuch cauld! 

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane, 

In proving foresight may be vain: 
The best-laid schemes o ’ mice an ’ men, 
Gang aft a-gley, 

An ’ lea ’e us naught but grief an’ pain, 
For promised joy! 

Still thou art blest, compared wi 9 me! 
The present only toucheth thee: 

But, och! I backward cast my e’e 
On prospects drear! 

An’ forward, though I canna see, 

I guess an’ fear! 

Robert Burns. 

THE SNAIL.- 

To grass or leaf, or fruit or wall, 

The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall, 
As if he grew there, house and all 
Together. 

Within that house secure he hides, 
When danger imminent betides, 

Of storm, or other harm besides 
Of weather. 

Give but his horns the slightest touch, 
His self-collecting power is such, 

He shrinks into his house with much 
Displeasure. 


Where’er he dwells, he dwells alone, 

Except himself, has chattels none, 

Well satisfied to be his own 
Whole treasure. 

Thus, hermit-like, his life he leads, 

Nor partner of his banquet needs, 

And if he meets one, only feeds 
The faster. 

Who seeks him must be worse than 
blind 

(He and his house are so combined), 

If, finding it, he fails to find 
Its master. 

From the Latin of Vincent Bourne, 
by William Cowper. 

THE HOUSEKEEPER. 

The frugal snail, with forecast of re¬ 
pose, 

Carries his house with him where’er 
he goes; 

Peeps out,—and if there comes a 
shower of rain, 

Retreats to his small domicile amain. 

Touch but a tip of him, a horn,— ’tis 
well,— 

He curls up in his sanctuary shell. 

He’s his own landlord, his own ten¬ 
ant ; stay 

Long as he will, he dreads no Quarter 
Day. 

Himself he boards and lodges; both 
invites 

And feasts himself; sleeps with him¬ 
self o’ nights. 

He spares the upholsterer trouble to 
procure 

Chattels; himself is his own furniture, 

And his sole riches. Whereso’er he 
roam,— 

Knock when you will,—he’s sure to 
be at home. 

From the Latin of Vincent Bourne, 
by Charles Lamb. 


2 S l 


Insects, Birds, and Beasts 


TO THE GRASSHOPPER AND 
THE CRICKET. 

Green little vaulter in the sunny 
grass, 

Catching your heart up at the feel of 
June: 

Sole voice that’s heard amidst the lazy 
noon, 

When even the bees lag at the sum¬ 
moning brass; 

And you, warm little housekeeper, 
who class 

With those who think the candle's 
come too soon, 

Loving the fire, and with your trick- 
some tune 

Nick the glad silent moments as they 
pass! 

0 sweet and tiny cousins, that belong 

One to the fields, the other to the 
hearth, 

Both have your sunshine; both, though 
small, are strong 

At your clear hearts; and both seem 
given to earth 

To sing in thoughtful ears their natu¬ 
ral song— 

In doors and out, summer and winter, 
Mirth. 

Leigh Hunt. 


THE GRASSHOPPER. 

Happy insect! what can be 
In happiness compared to thee? 

Fed with nourishment divine, 

The dewy morning’s gentle wine! 
Nature waits upon thee still, 

And thy verdant cup does fill; 

’Tis filled wherever thou dost tread, 
Nature’s self’s thy Ganymede. 

Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing, 
Happier than the happiest king! 

All the fields which thou dost see, 

All the plants belong to thee, 


All that summer hours produce, 
Fertile made with early juice: 

Man for thee does sow and plough; 
Farmer he and landlord thou! 

Thou dost innocently joy, 

Nor does thy luxury destroy. 

The shepherd gladly hearetli thee, 
More harmonious than he. 

Thee, country hinds with gladness 
hear, 

Prophet of the ripened year: 

Thee Phoebus loves and does inspire; 
Phoebus is himself thy sire. 

To thee of all things upon earth, 

Life is no longer than thy mirth. 
Happy insect! happy thou, 

Dost neither age nor winter know: 
But when thou’st drunk, and danced, 
and sung 

Thy fill, the flowery leaves among 
(Voluptuous and wise withal, 
Epicurean animal) 

Sated with the summer feast 
Thou retir’st to endless rest. 

Abraham Cowley. 

THE GRASSHOPPER AND 
THE CRICKET. 

The poetry of earth is never dead: 
When all the birds are faint with the 
hot sun, 

And hide in cooling trees, a voice will 
run 

From hedge to hedge about the new- 
mown mead: 

That is the grasshopper’s—he takes 
the lead 

In summer luxury—he has never done 
With his delights, for when tired out 
with fun, 

He rests at ease beneath some pleasant 
weed. 

The poetry of earth is ceasing never: 
On a lone winter evening, when the 
frost 


Poems for Children 


252 

Has wrought a silence, from the stove 
there shrills 

The Cricket’s song, in warmth in¬ 
creasing ever, 

And seems to one in drowsiness half 
lost, 

The grasshopper’s among the grassy 
hills. 

John Keats. 

THE CRICKET. 

Little inmate, full of mirth, 

Chirping on my kitchen hearth, 
Wheresoe’er be thy abode 
Always harbinger of good: 

Pay we for thy warm retreat 
With a song more soft and sweet; 

In return thou shalt receive 
Such a strain as I can give. 

Thus thy praise shall be expressed, 
Inoffensive, welcome guest! 

While the rat is on the scout 
And the mouse with curious snout, 
With what vermin else infest 
Every dish and spoil the best; 
Frisking thus before the fire 
Thou hast all thy heart’s desire. 

Though in voice and shape they be 
Formed as if akin to thee, 

Thou surpassest, happier far, 
Happiest grasshoppers that are; 
Theirs is but a summer song, 

Thine endures the winter long, 
Unimpaired, and shrill, and clear, 
Melody throughout the year. 

Neither night nor dawn of day 
Puts a period to thy play: 

Sing, then—and extend thy span 
Far beyond the date of man. 
Wretched man, whose years are spent 
In repining discontent, 

Lives not, aged though he be, 

Half a span, compared with thee. 

From the Latin of Vincent Bourne, 
by William Cowper . 


TO A CRICKET. 

Voice of summer, keen and shrill, 
Chirping round my winter fire, 

Of thy song I never tire, 

Weary others as they will, 

For thy song with summer’s filled— 
Filled with sunshine, filled with 
June; 

Firelight echo of that noon 
Heard in fields when all is stilled 
In the golden light of May, 
Bringing scents of new-mown hay, 
Bees, and birds, and flowers away, 
Prithee, haunt my fireside still, 

Voice of summer, keen and shrill. 

William Cox Bennett. 


THE BUTTERFLY’S FIRST 
FLIGHT. 

Thou has burst from thy prison, 
Bright child of the air, 

Like a spirit just risen 
From its mansion of care. 

Thou art joyously winging 
Thy first ardent flight, 

Where the gay lark is singing 
Her notes of delight: 

Where the sunbeams are throwing 
Their glories on thine, 

Till thy colours are glowing 
With tints more divine. 

Then tasting new pleasure 
In summer’s green bowers, 
Reposing at leisure 

On fresh-open’d flowers. 

Or delighted to hover 
Around them, to see 
Whose charms, airy rover, 

Bloom sweetest for thee; 


Insects, Birds, and Beasts 


And fondly inhaling 
Their fragrance, till day 
From thy bright eye is failing 
And fading away. 

Then seeking some blossom 
Which looks to the west, 

Thou dost find in its bosom 
Sweet shelter and rest. 

And there dost betake thee 
Till darkness is o’er, 

And the sunbeams awake thee 
To pleasure once more. 

Unknown. 


TO A BUTTERFLY. 

I’ve watched you now a full half-hour, 
Self-poised upon that yellow flower; 
And, little butterfly, indeed, 

I know not if you sleep or feed. 

How motionless!—not frozen seas 
More motionless; and then, 

What joy awaits you when the breeze 
Hath found you out among the trees, 
And calls you forth again! 

This plot of orchard ground is ours, 
My trees they are, my sister’s flowers; 
Here rest your wings when they are 
weary, 

Here lodge as in a sanctuary! 

Come to us often, fear no wrong, 

Sit near us on the bough! 

We’ll talk of sunshine and of song, 
And summer days when we were 
young; 

Sweet childish days that were as long 
As twenty days are now. 

William Wordsworth. 


2 53 

TO A BUTTERFLY. 

Stay near me—do not take thy flight! 
A little longer stay in sight! 

Much converse do I find in thee, 
Historian of my infancy! 

Float near me; do not yet depart! 

Dead times revive in thee: 

Thou bring’st, gay creature as thou 
art, 

A solemn image to my heart, 

My father’s family! 

Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days, 
The time when, in our childish plays, 
My sister Emmeline and I 
Together chased the butterfly! 

A very hunter did I rush 

Upon the prey—with leaps and 
springs 

I followed on from brake to bush, 
But she, God love her, feared to brush 
The dust from off its wings. 

William Wordsworth. 

THE BEE. 

Like trains of cars on tracks Qf 
plush 

I hear the level bee: 

A jar across the flowers goes, 

Their velvet masonry 

Withstands until the sweet assault 
Their chivalry consumes, 

While he, victorious, tilts away 
To vanquish other blooms. 

His feet are shod with gauze, 

His helmet is of gold; 

His breast, a single onyx 
With chrysoprase, inlaid. 

His labor is a chant, 

His idleness a tune; 

Oh, for a bee’s experience 
Of clovers and of noon! 

Emily Dickinson. 



2 54 


Poems for Children 


WHITE BUTTERFLIES. 

Fly, white butterflies, out to sea, 

Frail, pale wings for the wind to try, 

Small white wings that we scarce can 
see, 

Fly! 

Some fly light as a laugh of glee, 

Some fly soft as a long, low sigh; 

All to the haven where each would be, 

Fly! 

Algernon Charles Swinburne. 

WHERE THE BEE SUCKS. 

Where the bee sucks, there suck I; 

In a cowslip’s bell I lie: 

There I couch, when owls do cry. 

On the bat’s back I do fly, 

After summer, merrily: 

Merrily, merrily, shall I live now 

Under the blossom that hangs on the 
bough. 

William Shakespeare. 

SONG OF THE BEES. 

We watch for the light of the morn to 
break, 

And colour the eastern sky 

With its blended hues of saffron and 
lake; 

Then say to each other, “Awake! 
awake! 

For our winter’s honey is all to make, 
And our bread for a long supply.” 

And off we hie to the hill and dell, 

To the field, to the meadow and 
bower; 

We love in the columbine’s horn to 
dwell, 

To dip in the lily with snow-white 
bell, 

To search for the balm in its fragrant 
cell, 

The mint and the rosemary flower. 


We seek the bloom of the eglantine, 
Of the painted thistle and brier; 
And follow the steps of the wandering 
vine, 

Whether it trail on the earth supine, 
Or round the aspiring tree-top twine, 
And aim at a state still higher. 

While each, on the good of her sister 
bent, 

Is busy, and cares for all, 

We hope for an evening of heart’s 
content 

In the winter of life, without lament 
That summer is gone, or its hours 
misspent, 

And the harvest is past recall. 

Hannah Flagg Gould. 

TO A BEE. 

Thou wert out betimes, thou busy, 
busy bee! 

As abroad I,took my early way, 
Before the cow from her resting-place 
Had risen up, and left her trace 
On the meadow, with dew so gay, 
Saw I thee, thou busy, busy bee! 

Thou wert working late, thou busy, 
busy bee! 

After the fall of the cistus flower, 
When the primrose of evening was 
ready to burst, 

I heard thee last, as I saw thee first; 

In the silence of the evening hour, 
Heard I thee, thou busy, busy bee! 

Thou art a miser, thou busy, busy bee! 

Late and early at employ; 

Still on thy golden stores intent, 

Thy summer in keeping and hoarding 
is spent, 

What thy winter will never enjoy. 
Wise lesson this for me, thou busy, 
busy bee! 


Insects, Birds, and Beasts 


Little dost thou think, thou busy, busy 
bee! 

What is the end of thy toil, 

When the latest flowers of the ivy are 
gone, 

And all thy work for the year is done, 
Thy master comes for the spoil; 
Woe then for thee, thou busy, busy 
bee! 

Robert Southey . 

TO A FLY. 

Busy, curious, thirsty Fly, 

Drink with me, and drink as I; 
Freely welcome to my cup, 

Could’st thou sip, and sip it up. 

Make the most of life you may; 

Life is short, and wears away. 

Both alike are mine and thine, 

Hast ’ning quick to their decline:— 
Thine’s a summer: mine’s no more, 
Though repeated to three-score:— 
Three-score summers, when they’re 
gone 

Will appear as short as one. 

William Oldys. 


MISTER FLY. 

What a sharp little fellow is Mister 
Fly, 

He goes where he pleases, low or high, 
And can walk just as well with his 
feet to the sky 
As I can on the floor; 

At the window he comes 
With a buzz and a roar, 

And o’er the smooth glass 
Can easily pass 

Or through the keyhole of the door. 
He eats the sugar, and goes away, 

Nor ever once asks what there is to 

pay; 


2 55 

And sometimes he crosses the teapot's 
steam, 

And comes and plunges his head in 
the cream; 

Then on the edge of the jug he stands, 
And cleans his wings with his feet 
and hands. 

This done, through the window be 
hurries away, 

And gives a buzz, as if to say, 

“At present I haven’t a minute to 
stay, 

But I ’ll peep in again in the course of 
the day.” 

Then again he’ll fly 
Where the sunbeams lie, 

And neither stop to shake hands 
Nor bid good-bye: 

Such a strange little fellow is Master 
Fly, 

Who goes where he pleases, low or 
high, 

And can walk on the ceiling 
Without ever feeling 
A fear of tumbling down “sky-high.” 

Thomas Miller. 

THE FLY. 

Little fly, 

Thy summer’s play, 

My thoughtless hand 
Has brush’d away. 

Am not I 
A fly like thee? 

Or art not thou 
A man like me? 

For I dance, 

And drink and sing. 

Till some blind hand 
Shall brush my wing. 

If thought is life 
And strength and breath, 

And the want 
Of thought is death; 


256 


Poems for Children 


Then am I 
A happy fly 
If I live 
Or if I die. 

William Blake. 


THE TRUE STORY OF WEB- 
SPINNER. 

Web-spinner was a miser old, 

Who came of low degree; 

His body was large, his legs were thin, 
And he kept bad company; 

And his visage had the evil look 
Of a black felon grim; 

To all the country he was known, 

But none spoke well of him. 

His house was seven stories high, 

In a corner of the street, 

And it always had a dirty look, 
When other homes were neat; 

Up in his garret dark he lived, 

And from the windows high, 

Looked out in the dusky evening 
Upon the passers-by. 

Most people thought he lived alone, 
Yet many have averred 

That dismal cries from out his house 
Were often loudly heard; 

And that none living left his gate, 
Although a few went in; 

For he seized the very beggar old, 
And stripped him to the skin. 

And though he prayed for mercy, 
Yet mercy ne’er was shown— 

The miser cut his body up, 

And picked him bone from bone. 

Thus people said, and all believed 
The dismal story true ; 

As it was told to me, in truth, 

I tell it so to you. 

There was an ancient widow— 

One Madgy de la Moth, 

A stranger to the man, or she 
Had ne’er gone there in troth: 


But she was poor and wandered out, 
At nightfall in the street, 

To beg from rich men’s tables 
Dry scraps of broken meat. 

So she knocked at old Web-Spinner’s 
door 

With a modest tap, and low, 

And down stairs came he speedily 
Like an arrow from a bow. 

“Walk in, walk in, mother,” said he, 
And shut the door behind— 

She thought, for such a gentleman, 
That he was wondrous kind. 

But ere the midnight clock had tolled, 
Like a tiger of the wood, 

He had eaten the flesh from off her 
bones, 

And drunk of her heart’s blood! 


Now after this foul deed was done, 

A little season’s space, 

The Burly Baron of Bluebottle 
Was riding from the chase. 

The sport was dull, the day was hot, 
The sun was sinking down, 

When wearily the Baron rode 
Into the dusty town. 

Says he, “I’ll ask a lodging, 

At the first house I come to;” 
With that, the gate of Web-Spinner 
Came suddenly in view; 

Loud Avas the knock the Baron gave: 

Down came the churl with glee; 
Says Bluebottle, “Good Sir, to-night 
I ask your courtesy; 

I am wearied by a long day’s chase— 
My friends are far behind. ’ ’ 

“You may need them all,” said Web- 
Spinner, 

“It runneth in my mind.” 

“A Baron am I,” said Bluebottle; 

“From a foreign land I come;” 
“I thought as much,” said Web' 
Spinner, 

“Fools never stay at home!” 


Insects, Birds, and Beasts 


Says the Baron, “Churl, what mean- 
eth this? 

I defy you, villain base!” 

And he wished the while, in his in¬ 
most heart, 

He was safely from the place. 
Web-Spinner ran and locked the door, 
And a loud laugh laughed he, 

With that, each one on the other 
sprang, 

And they wrestled furiously. 

The Baron was a man of might, 

A swordsman of renown; 

But the Miser had the stronger arm, 
And kept the Baron down. 

Then out he took a little cord, 

From a pocket at his side, 

And with many a crafty, cruel knot, 
His hands and feet he tied; 

And bound him down unto the floor, 
And said in savage jest, 

“There is heavy work for you in 
store; 

So, Baron, take your rest!” 

Then up and down his house he went, 
Arranging dish and platter, 

With a dull and heavy countenance, 

As if nothing were the matter. 

At length he seized on Bluebottle, 
That strong and burly man, 

And, with many and many a desper¬ 
ate tug, 

To hoist him up began: 

And step by step, and step by step, 
He went with heavy tread; 

But ere he reached the garret door, 
Poor Bluebottle was dead. 

Now all this while, a magistrate, 

Who lived in a house hard by, 

Had watched Web-Spinner’s cruelty 
Through a window privily: 

So in he burst, through bolts and bars, 
With a loud and thundering sound, 
And vowed to burn the house with 
fire, 

And level it with the ground; 


2 57 

But the wicked churl, who all his life 
Had looked for such a day, 

Passed through a trap-door in the 
wall, 

And took himself away. 

But where he went, no man could tell: 

’Twas said that under ground 
He died a miserable death— 

But his body ne’er was found. 

They pulled his house down, stick and 
stone, 

‘ ‘ For a caitiff vile as he, ’ ’ 

Said they, “within our quiet town 
Shall not a dweller be! ” 

Mary Howitt. 


MY THRUSH. 

All through the sultry hours of June, 
From morning blithe to golden noon, 
And till the star of evening climbs 
The gray-blue East, a world too soon, 
There sings a Thrush amid the 
limes. 

God’s poet, hid in foliage green, 

Sings endless songs, himself unseen; 

Right seldom come his silent times. 
Linger, ye summer hours serene! 
Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the 
limes! 

Nor from these confines wander out, 
Where the old gun, bucolic lout, 
Commits all day his murderous 
crimes: 

Though cherries ripe are sweet, no 
doubt, 

Sweeter thy song amid the limes. 

May I not dream God sends thee there, 
Thou mellow angel of the air, 

Even to rebuke my earthlier rhymes 
With music’s soul, all praise and 
prayer ? 

Is that thy lesson in the limes? 


Poems for Children 


258 

Closer to God art thou than I: 

His minstrel thou, whose brown wings 
fly 

Through silent ether’s summer 
climes. 

Ah, never may thy music die! 

Sing on, dear Thrush, amid the 
limes! 

Mortimer Collins. 


THE EAGLE. 

He clasps the crag with crooked 
hands; 

Close to the sun in lonely lands, 
Ringed with the azure world, he 
stands. 

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; 
He watches from his mountain walls, 
And like a thunderbolt he falls. 

Alfred Tennyson. 


THE NAUTILUS. 

Where southern suns and winds pre¬ 
vail, 

And undulate the summer seas, 
The Nautilus expands his sail, 

And scuds before the freshening 
breeze. 

Oft is a little squadron seen 
Of mimic ships, all rigged complete; 
Fancy might think the fairy-queen 
Was sailing with her elfin fleet. 

With how much beauty is designed 
Each channeled bark of purest 
white! 

With orient pearl each cabin lined, 
Varying with every change of light. 


While with his little slender oars, 
His silken sail and tapering mast, 
The dauntless mariner explores 
The dangers of the watery waste; 

Prepared, should tempests rend the 
sky, 

From harm his fragile bark to keep, 
He furls his sail, his oars lays by, 

And seeks his safety in the deep. 

Then safe on ocean’s shelly bed, 

He hears the storm above him roar, 
’Mid groves of coral glowing red, 

And rocks o’erhung with madre¬ 
pore. 

So let us catch life’s favouring gale; 

But, if fate’s adverse winds be rude 
Take calmly in the adventurous sail, 
And find repose in solitude. 

Charlotte Smith. 

THE KITTEN AT PLAY. 

See the kitten on the wall, 

Sporting with the leaves that fall, 
Withered leaves, one, two, and three 
Falling from the elder-tree, 

Through the calm and frosty air 
Of the morning bright and fair. 

See the kitten, how she starts, 
Crouches, stretches, paws and darts; 
With a tiger-leap half way 
Now she meets her coming prey. 

Lets it go as fast and then 
Has it in her power again. 

Now she works with three and four, 
Like an Indian conjurer; 

Quick as he in feats of art, 

Gracefully she plays her part; 

Yet were gazing thousands there, 
What would little Tabby care? 

William Wordsworth. 



© G. W. J. & CO. 

See the kitten on the wall, 

Sporting with the leaves that fall 


THE KITTEN AT PLAY 
























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Insects, Birds, and Beasts 


THE RETIRED CAT. 

A poet's cat, sedate and grave 
As poet well could wish to have, 

Was much addicted to inquire 
For nooks to which she might retire, 
And where, secure as mouse in chink, 
She might repose, or sit and think. 

Sometimes ascending, debonair, 

An apple-tree, or lofty pear, 

Lodged with convenience in the fork 
She watched the gardener at his work; 
Sometimes her ease and solace sought 
In an old empty watering-pot; 

There, wanting nothing but a fan, 

To seem some nymph ill her sedan, 
Apparelled in exactest sort, 

And ready to be borne to court. 


But love of change it seems has place 
Not only in our wiser race; 

Cats also feel, as well as we, 

That passion ’s force, and so did she. 
Her climbing, she began to find, 
Exposed her too much to the wind, 
And the old utensil of tin 
Was cold and comfortless within; 

She therefore wished, instead of those, 
Some place of more secure repose, 
Where neither cold might come, nor 
air 

Too rudely wanton with her hair, 

And sought it in the likeliest mode 
Within her master’s snug abode. 

A drawer, it chanced, at bottom lined 
With linen of the softest kind— 

A drawer impending o’er the rest, 
Half open, in the topmost chest, 

Of depth enough, and none to spare, 
Inviting her to slumber there. 

Puss, with delight beyond expression, 
Surveyed the scene and took posses¬ 
sion. 


259 

Then resting at her ease, ere long, 
And lulled by her own hum-drum 
song, 

She left the cares of life behind, 
And slept as she would sleep her last; 

When in came, housewifely inclined, 
The chambermaid, and shut it fast; 
By no malignity impelled, 

But all unconscious whom it held. 
Awakened by the shock, cried Puss, 
“Was ever cat attended thus! 

The open drawer was left I see, 
Merely to prove a nest for me; 

For soon as I was well composed, 
Then came the maid, and it was closed. 
Plow smooth these kerchiefs and how 
sweet; 

Oh! what a delicate retreat, 

I will resign myself to rest, 

Till Sol declining in the west, 

Shall call to supper, when, no doubt, 
Susan will come and let me out.” 

The evening came, the sun descended, 
And Puss remained still unattended. 
The night rolled tardily away 
(AVith her, indeed, ’twas never day), 
The sprightly moon her course re¬ 
newed, 

The evening grey again ensued; 

And Puss came into mind no more 
Than if entombed the day before. 
With hunger pinched, and pinched for 
room, 

She now presaged approaching doom, 
Nor slept a single wink or purred, 
Conscious of jeopardy incurred. 

That night, by chance, the poet watch¬ 
ing, 

Heard an inexplicable scratching; 
Plis noble heart went pit-a-pat, 

And to himself he said, 1 ‘What’s 
that ? ’ ’ 

He drew the curtain at his side, 

And forth he peeped, but nothing 
spied; 


26 o 


Poems for Children 


Yet, by his ear directed, guessed 
Something imprisoned in the chest, 
And doubtful what, with prudent care, 
Resolved it should continue there. 

At length a voice which well he knew, 
A long and melancholy mew, 
Saluting his poetic ears, 

Consoled him and dispelled his fears, 
lie left his bed, he trod the floor, 

And ’gan in haste the drawers ex¬ 
plore, 

The lowest first, and without stop 
The rest in order, to the top; 

For ’tis a truth well known to most, 
That whatsoever thing is lost, 

We seek it ere it come to light 
In every cranny but the right. 

Forth skipped the cat, not now replete, 
As erst, with airy self-conceit, 

Nor in her own fond apprehension 
A theme for all the world’s attention; 
But sober, modest, cured of all 
Her notions so hyperbolical, 

And wishing for her place of rest 
Anything rather than a chest. 

Then stepped the poet into bed 
With this reflection in his head: 

MORAL. 

Beware of too sublime a sense 
Of your own worth and consequence! 
The man who dreams himself so great, 
And his importance of such weight, 
That all around in all that’s done, 
Must move and act for him alone, 

Will learn in school of tribulation, 
The folly of his expectation. 

William Cowper. 

ON A SPANIEL CALLED “BEAU” 
KILLING A YOUNG BIRD. 

A spaniel, Beau, that fares like you, 
Well fed, and at his ease, 

Should wiser be than to pursue 
Each trifle that he sees. 


But you have killed a tiny bird 
Which flew not till to-day, 

Against my orders, when you heard 
Forbidding you the prey. 

Nor did you kill that you might eat 
And ease a doggish pain; 

For him, though chased with furious 
heat, 

You left where he was slain. 

Nor was he of the thievish sort, 

Or one whom blood allures, 

But innocent was all his sport 
Whom you have torn for yours. 

My dog! what remedy remains, 

Since teach you all I can, 

I see you, after all my pains, 

So much resemble man. 

William Cowper. 


BEAU’S REPLY. 

Sir, when I flew to seize the bird 
In spite of your command, 

A louder voice than yours I heard 
And harder to withstand. 

You cried, “Forbear!”—but in my 
breast 

A mightier cried, “Proceed!”— 
’Twas Nature, sir, whose strong be¬ 
hest 

Impelled me to the deed. 

Yet much as Nature I respect, 

I ventured once to break 
(As you perhaps may recollect) 

Her precept for jmur sake; 

And when your linnet on a day, 
Passing his prison door, 

Had fluttered all his strength away, 
And panting, pressed the floor; 


Insects, Birds, and Beasts 


Well knowing him a sacred thing, 

Not destined to my tooth, 

I only kissed his ruffled wing, 

And licked the feathers smooth. 

Let my obedience then excuse 
My disobedience now; 

Nor some reproof yourself refuse 
From your aggrieved Bow-wow; 

If killing birds be such a crime 
(Which I can hardly see), 

What think you, sir, of killing Time 
With verse addressed to me? 

William Cowpcr. 

THE LITTLE BEACH-BIRD. 

Thou little bird, thou dweller by the 
sea, 

Why takest thou its melancholy 
voice, 

And with that boding cry 
Why o’er the waves dost fly? 

0, rather, bird, with me 

Through the fair land rejoice! 

Thy flitting form comes ghostly dim 
and pale, 

As driven by a beating storm at sea; 
Thy cry is weak and scared, 

As if thy mates had shared 
The doom of us. Thy wail,— 

What doth it bring to me? 

Thou call’st along the sand, and 
haunt’st the surge, 

Restless, and sad; as if, in strange 
accord 

With the motion and the roar 
Of waves that drive to shore, 

One spirit did ye urge— 

The Mystery—the Word. 

Of thousands, thou, both sepulchre 
and pall, 

Old Ocean! A requiem o’er the 
dead, 


261 

From out thy gloomy cells, 

A tale of mourning tells,— 

Tells of man’s woe and fall, 

His sinless glory fled. 

Then turn thee, little bird, and take 
thy flight 

Where the complaining sea shall 
sadness bring 
Thy spirit nevermore. 

Come, quit with me the shore, 
For gladness and the light, 

Where birds of summer sing. 

Richard Henry Dana. 

AN EPITAPH. 

Here lies one who never drew 
Blood himself, yet many slew; 
Gave the gun its aim, and figure 
Made in field, yet ne’er pulled trig¬ 
ger. 

Armed men have gladly made 
Him their guide, and him obeyed; 
At his signified desire, 

Would advance, present, and fire. 
Stout he was, and large of limb, 
Scores have fled at sight of him; 
And to all this fame he rose 
Only following his nose. 

Neptune was he called, not he 
Who controls the boisterous sea, 
But of happier command, 

Neptune of the furrowed land; 
And your wonder vain to shorten, 
Pointer to Sir John Throckmorton. 

William Cowpcr. 

CHIMNEY SWALLOWS. 

I slept in an old homestead by the 
sea: 

And in their chimney nest, 

At night the swallows told home-lore 
to me, 

As to a friendly guest. 


262 


Poems for Children 


A liquid twitter, low, confiding, glad, 

From many glossy throats, 

Was all the voice; and yet its accents 
had 

A poem’s golden notes. 

Quaint legends of the fireside and the 
shore, 

And sounds of festal cheer, 

And tones of those whose tasks of love 
are o’er, 

Were breathed into mine ear; 

And wondrous lyrics, felt but never 
sung, 

The heart’s melodious bloom; 

And histories, whose perfumes long 
have clung 

About each hallowed room. 

I heard the dream of lovers, as they 
found 

At last their hour of bliss, 

And fear and pain and long suspense 
were drowned 

In one heart-healing kiss. 

I heard the lullaby of babes, that grew 

To sons and daughters fair; 

And childhood’s angels, singing as 
they flew, 

And sobs of secret prayer. 

I heard the voyagers who seemed to 
sail 

Into the sapphire sky, 

And sad, weird voices in the autumn 
gale, 

As the swift ships went by; 

And sighs suppressed and converse 
soft and low 

About the sufferer’s bed, 

And what is uttered when the stricken 
know 

That the dear one is dead; 


And steps of those who, in the Sab¬ 
bath light, 

Muse with transfigured face; 

And hot lips pressing, through the 
long, dark night, 

The pillow’s empty place; 

And fervent greetings of old friends, 
whose path 

In youth had gone apart, 

But to each other brought life’s after- 
math, 

With uncorroded heart. 

The music of the seasons touched the 
strain, 

Bird-joy and laugh of flowers, 

The orchard’s bounty and the yellow 
grain, 

Snow-storm and sunny showers; 

And secrets of the soul that doubts 
and yearns 

And gropes in regions dim, 

Till, meeting Christ with raptured 
eye, discerns 

Its perfect life in Him. 

So, thinking of the Master and His 
tears, 

And how the birds are kept, 

I sank in arms that folded me from 
fears, 

And, like an infant, slept. 

Horatio Nelson Powers. 


THE WOUNDED HARE. 

Inhuman man! curse on thy barbar¬ 
ous art, 

And blasted be thy murder-aiming 
eye; 

May never pity soothe thee with a 
sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel 
heart! 


263 


Insects, Birds, and Beasts 


—Go, live, poor wanderer of the wood 
and field, 

The bitter little that of life remains; 

No more the thickening brakes and 
verdant plains 

To thee shall home, or food, or pastime 
yield. 

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of 
wonted rest. 

No more of rest, but now thy dying 
bed! 

The sheltering rushes whistling 0 ’er 
thy head, 

The cold earth with thy bloody bosom 
prest. 

Oft, as by winding Nith, I, musing, 
wait 

The sober eve, or hail the cheerful 
dawn, 

I’ll miss thee sporting o’er the dewy 
lawn, 

And curse the ruffian’s aim, and 
mourn thy hapless fate. 

Robert Burns. 

CHILD'S TALK IN APRIL. 

I wish you were a pleasant wren, 

And I your small accepted mate; 

How we’d look down on toilsome men! 

We’d rise and go to bed at eight 

Or it may not be quite so late. 

Then you should see the nest I’d build, 

The wondrous nest for you and me; 

The outside rough perhaps, but filled 

With wool and down; ah, you should 
see 

The cosy nest that it would be. 

We’d have our change of hope and 
fear, 

Some quarrels, reconcilements sweet; 

I’d perch by you to chirp and cheer, 

Or hop about on active feet, 

And fetch you dainty bits to eat. 


We’d be so happy by the day, 

So safe and happy through the 
night, 

We both should feel, and I should say, 
It’s all one season of delight, 

And we’ll make merry whilst we 
may. 

Perhaps some day there’d be an egg 
When spring had blossomed from 
the snow: 

I’d stand triumphant on one leg; 

Like chanticleer I’d almost crow 
To let our little neighbors know. 

Next you should sit and I would sing 
Through lengthening days of sunny 
spring; 

Till, if you wearied of the task, 

I’d sit; and you should spread your 
wing 

From bough to bough; I’d sit and 
bask. 

Fancy the breaking of the shell, 

The chirp, the chickens wet and 
bare, 

The untried proud paternal swell; 
And you with housewife-matron air 
Enacting choicer bills of fare. 

Fancy the embryo coats of down, 

The gradual feathers soft and sleek; 

Till clothed and strong from tail to 
crown, 

With virgin warblings in their beak, 
They too go forth to soar and seek. 

So would it last an April through 
And early summer fresh with dew, 

Then should we part and live as 
twain: 

Love-time would bring me back to 
you 

And build our happy nest again. 

Christina Georgina Rossetti. 


264 


Poems for Children 


THE JACKDAW. 

There is a bird, who by his coat, 

And by the hoarseness of his note, 
Might be supposed a crow; 

A great frequenter of the church, 
Where bishop-like he finds a perch, 
And dormitory too. 

Above the steeple shines a plate, 

That turns and turns, to indicate 
From what point blows the weather; 
Look up—your brains begin to swim, 
Tis in the clouds—that pleases him, 
He chooses it the rather. 

Fond of the speculative height, 
Thither he wings his airy flight, 

And thence securely sees 
The bustle and the raree-show, 

That occupy mankind below, 

Secure and at his ease. 

You think, no doubt, he sits and muses 
On future broken bones and bruises, 

If he should chance to fall. 

No: not a single thought like that 
Employs his philosophic pate, 

Or troubles it at all. 

He sees that this great roundabout, 
The world, with all its medley rout, 
Church, army, physic, law, 

Its customs, and its businesses 
Is no concern at all of his, 

And says—what says he?—“Caw.” 

Thrice happy bird! I too have seen 
Much of the vanities of men; 

And, sick of having seen ’em, 
Would cheerfully these limbs resign 
For such a pair of wings as thine, 
And such a head between ’em. 

From the Latin of Vincent Bourne, 
by William Cowper. 


THE SQUIRREL. 

“The squirrel is happy, the squirrel 
is gay,” 

Little Henry exclaim’d to his 
brother; 

“He has nothing to do or to think of 
but play, 

And to jump from one bough to 
another. ’ ’ 

But William was older and wiser, 
and knew 

That all play and no work would 
not answer, 

So he ask’d what the squirrel in 
winter must do, 

If he spent all the summer a 
dancer. 

“The squirrel, dear Harry, is merry 
and wise, 

For true wisdom and mirth go to¬ 
gether ; 

He lays up in summer his winter 
supplies, 

And then he don’t mind the cold 
weather. ’ ’ 

Bernard Barton . 

THE BLOOD HORSE. 

(Iamarra is a dainty steed, 

Strong, black, and of a noble breed, 
Full of fire, and full of bone, 

All his line of fathers known; 

Fine his nose, his nostrils thin, 

But blown abroad by the pride within! 
His mane, a stormy river flowing, 

And his eyes like embers glowing 
In the darkness of the night, 

And his pace as swift as light. 

Look—around his straining throat, 
Grace and shifting beauty float! 
Sinewy strength is in his reins, 

And the red blood gallops through his 

veins. 


Insects, Birds, and Beasts 


Richer, redder, never ran 
Through the boasting heart of man, 
He can trace his lineage higher 
Than the Bourbon dare aspire,— 
Douglas, Guzman, or the Guelph, 

Or O’Brien’s blood itself! 

He, who hath no peer, was born, 

Here, upon a red March morn; 

But his famous fathers dead 
Were Arabs all, and Arab bred, 

And the last of that great line 
Trod like one of race divine! 

And yet—he was but friend to one, 
Who fed him at the set of sun, 

By some lone fountain fringed with 
green: 

With him, a roving Bedouin, 

He lived (none else would he obey 
Through all the hot Arabian day),— 
And died untamed, upon the sands 
Where Balkh amidst the desert stands! 

Barry Cornwall. 

THE O’LINCON FAMILY. 

A flock of merry singing-birds were 
sporting in the grove; 

Some were warbling cheerily, and 
some were making love: 

There were Bobolincon, Wadolincon, 
Winterseeble, Conquedle,— 

A livelier set was never led by tabor, 
pipe, or fiddle,— 

Crying, “ Phew, shew, Wadolincon, 
see, see, Bobolincon, 

Down among the tickletops, hiding in 
the buttercups! 

I know a saucy chap, I see his shining 
cap 

Bobbing in the clover there—see, see, 
see! ” 

Up flies Bobolincon, perching on an 
apple-tree, 

Startled by his rival’s song, quickened 
by his raillery, 


26 J 

Soon he spies the rogue afloat, curvet¬ 
ing in the air, 

And merrily he turns about, and 
warns him to beware! 

“ ’Tis you that would a-wooing go, 
down among the rushes 0! 

But wait a week, till flowers are 
cheery,—wait a week, and, ere 
you marry, 

Be sure of a house wherein to tarry! 

Wadolink, Whiskodink, Tom Denny, 
wait, wait, wait! ’ ’ 

Every one’s a funny fellow; every 
one’s a little mellow; 

Follow, follow, follow, follow, o’er the 
hill and in the hollow! 

Merrily, merrily, there they hie; now 
they rise and now they fly; 

They cross and turn, and in and out, 
and down in the middle and 
wheel about,— 

With a “Phew, shew, Wadolincon! 
listen to me, Bobolincon!— 

Happy’s the wooing that’s speedily 
doing, that’s speedily doing, 

That’s merry and over with the bloom 
of the clover! 

Bobolincon, Wadolincon, Winterseeble, 
follow, follow, follow me!” 

Wilson Flagg. 


THE LION. 

Lion, thou art girt with might! 
King by uncontested right; 
Strength, and majesty, and pride, 
Are in thee personified! 

Slavish doubt, or timid fear, 
Never came thy spirit near; 

What is it to fly, or bow 
To a mightier than thou, 

Never has been known to thee, 
Creature, terrible and free! 


266 


Poems for Children 


Power the mightiest gave the Lion, 
Sinews like to bands of iron; 

Gave him force which never failed; 
Gave a heart that never quailed. 
Triple-mailed coat of steel, 

Plates of brass from head to heel. 

Less defensive were in wearing, 

Than the Lion’s heart of daring; 

Nor could towers of strength impart 
Trust like that which keeps his heart. 

When he sends his roaring forth, 
Silence falls upon the earth; 

For the creatures, great and small, 
Know his terror-breathing call; 

And, as if by death pursued, 

Leave him to a solitude. 

Lion, thou art made to dwell 
In hot lands, intractable, 

And thyself, the sun, the sand, 

Are a tyrannous triple band; 
Lion-king and desert throne, 

All the region is your own! 

Mary Howitt. 


THE TIGER. 

Tiger, tiger, burning bright 
In the forests in the night, 

What immortal hand or eye 
Could frame thy fearful symmetry? 

In what distant deeps or skies 
Burnt the fire of thine eyes? 

On what wings dare he aspire ? 

What the hand dare seize the fire ? 

And what shoulder and what art, 
Could twist the sinews of thy heart? 
And when thy heart began to beat, 
What dread hand? and what dread 
feet? 


What the hammer? what the chain? 

In what furnace was thy brain? 

What the anvil? what dread grasp 
Dares its deadly terrors clasp ? 

When the stars threw down their 
spears, 

And water’d heaven with their tears, 
Did he smile his work to see? 

Did he who made the lamb make thee ? 

Tiger, tiger, burning bright 
In the forests of the night, 

What immortal hand or eye 
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? 

William Blake. 

THE GIRL AND HER FAWN. 

With sweetest milk and sugar first 
I it at my fingers nursed; 

And as it grew, so every day 
It wax’d more white and sweet than 
they:— 

It had so sweet a breath! and oft 
I blush’d to see its foot more soft 
And white,—shall I say,—than my 
hand ? 

Nay, any lady’s of the land! 

It is a wondrous thing how fleet 
’Twas on those little silver feet: 

With what a pretty skipping grace 
It oft would challenge me the race:— 
And when ’t had left me far away 
’Twould stay, and run again, and 
stay: 

For it was nimbler much than hinds, 
And trod as if on the four winds. 

I have a garden of my own, 

But so with roses overgrown 
And lilies, that you would it guess 
To be a little wilderness: 

And all the spring-time of the year 
It only loved to be there. 


267 


Insects, Birds, and Beasts 


Among the bed of lilies I 
Have sought it oft, where it should 
lie; 

Yet could not, till itself would rise, 
Find it, although before mine eyes:— 
For in the flaxen lilies ’ shade 
It like a bank of lilies laid. 

Upon the roses it would feed, 

Until its lips e’en seem’d to bleed: 
And then to me ’twould boldly trip, 
And print those roses on my lip. 

But all its chief delight was still 
On roses thus itself to fill, 

And its pure virgin limbs to fold 
In whitest sheets of lilies cold:— 

Had it lived long, it would have been 
Lilies without,—roses within. 

Andrew Marvell. 

THE KID. 

A tear bedews my Delia’s eye 
To think yon playful kid must die; 
From crystal spring and flowery mead 
Must, in his prime of life, recede. 

Erewhile in sportive circles, round 
She saw him wheel, and frisk, and 
bound; 

From rock to rock pursue his way, 
And on the fearful margin play. 

Pleased on his various freaks to dwell, 
She saw him climb my rustic cell; 
Thence eye my lawns with verdure 
bright, 

And seem all ravished at the sight. 

She tells with what delight he stood 
To trace his footsteps in the flood: 
Then skipped aloof with quaint amaze, 
And then drew near again to gaze. 

She tells me how with eager speed, 
He flew to bear my vocal reed; 

And how with critic face profound, 
And steadfast ear, devoured the 
sound. 


His every frolic, light as air, 
Deserves the gentle Delia’s care; 
And tears bedew her tender eye 
To think the playful kid must die. 

William Shensi one. 


SING ON, BLITHE BIRD! 

I’ve plucked the berry from the bush, 
the brown nut from the tree, 

But heart of happy little bird ne’er 
broken was by me. 

I saw them in their curious nests, 
close couching, slyly peer 

With their wild eyes, like glittering 
beads, to note if harm were near; 

I passed them by, and blessed them 
all; I felt that it was good 

To leave unmoved the creatures small 
whose home was in the wood. 

And here, even now, above my head, a 
lusty rouge doth sing; 

He pecks his swelling breast and neck, 
and trims his little wing. 

He will not fly; he knows full well, 
while chirping on that spray, 

I would not harm him for a world, or 
interrupt his lay. 

Sing on, sing on, blithe bird! and fill 
my heart with summer gladness; 

It has been aching many a day with 
measures full of sadness! 

William Motherwell. 

THE BIRD. 

A Nursery Song. 

“Birdie, Birdie, will you pet? 

Summer-time is far away yet, 

You’ll have silken quilts and a vel¬ 
vet bed, 

And a pillow of satin for your 
head!’ ’ 


268 


Poems for Children 


“ I’d rather sleep in the ivy wall; 

No rain comes through, tho’ I hear 
it fall; 

The sun peeps gay at dawn of day, 
And I sing, and wing away, away! ’ ’ 

“Oh, Birdie, Birdie, will you pet? 
Diamond-stones and amber and jet 
We’ll string for a necklace fair and 
fine, 

To please this pretty bird of mine! ’ ’ 

“0 thanks for diamonds, and thanks 
for jet, 

But here is something daintier yet— 
A feather-necklace round and 
round, 

That I wouldn’t sell for a thousand 
pound! ’ ’ 

“Oh, Birdie, Birdie, won’t you pet? 
We’ll buy you a dish of silver fret, 
A golden cup and an ivory seat, 
And carpets soft beneath your 
feet.” 

“Can running water be drunk from 
gold? 

Can a silver dish the forest hold ? 

A rocking twig is the finest chair, 
And the softest paths lie through 
the air— 

Good-bye, good-bye to my lady 
fair! ” 

William Allingham. 

THE LARK AND THE 
NIGHTINGALE. 

’Tis sweet to hear the merry lark, 

That bids a blithe good-morrow; 

But sweeter to hark, in the twinkling 
dark, 

To the soothing song of sorrow. 

0 Nightingale! what doth she ail ? 
And is she sad or jolly? 

For ne ’er on earth was sound of mirth 
So like to melancholy. 


The merry lark, he soars on high, 

No worldly thought o’ertakes him; 

He sings aloud to the clear blue sky, 
And the daylight that awakes him 

As sweet a lay, as loud, as gay, 

The nightingale is trilling, 

With feeling bliss, no less than his, 
Her little heart is thrilling. 

Yet ever and anon, a sigh 

Peers through her lavish mirth; 

For the lark’s bold song is of the sky, 
And hers is of the earth. 

By day and night she tunes her lay, 
To drive away all sorrow; 

For bliss, alas! to-night must pass, 
And woe may come to-morrow. 

Hartley Coleridge. 


THE SKYLARK. 

Bird of the wilderness, 

Blithesome and cumberless, 

Sweet be thy matin o ’er moorland and 
lea! 

Emblem of happiness, 

Blest is thy dwelling-place— 

Oh to abide in the desert with thee! 

Wild is thy lay and loud, 

Far in the downy cloud 
Love gives it energy, love gave it birth. 
Where, on thy dewy wing, 

Where art thou journeying? 

Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on 
earth. 

O’er fell and fountain sheen, 

0 ’er moor and mountain green, 

0 ’er the red streamer that heralds the 
day, 

Over the cloudlet dim, 

Over the rainbow’s rim, 

Musical cherub, roar, singing, away! 


Insects, Birds, and Beasts 


Then, when the gloaming comes, 
Low in the heather blooms 
Sweet will thy welcome and bed of 
love be! 

Emblem of happiness, 

Blest is thy dwelling-place— 

Oh to abide in the desert with thee! 

James Hogg. 


TO A SKYLARK. 

Hail to thee, blithe spirit! 

Bird thou never wert, 

That from heaven, or near it, 
Pourest thy full heart 
In profuse strains of unpremeditated 
art. 

Higher still and higher 

From the earth thou springest 
Like a cloud of fire; 

The blue deep thou wingest 
And singing still dost soar, and soar¬ 
ing ever singest. 

In the golden lightning 
Of the sunken sun, 

0 ’er which clouds are brightening, 
Thou dost float and run; 

Like an unbodied joy whose race is 
just begun. 

The pale purple even 
Melts around thy flight: 

Like a star of heaven, 

In the broad daylight 
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy 
shrill delight. 

Keen as are the arrows 
Of that silver sphere 
Whose intense lamp narrows 
In the white dawn clear, 

Until we hardly see, we feel that it is 
there. 


269 

All the earth and air 
With thy voice is loud, 

As, when night is bare, 

From one lonely cloud 
The moon rains out her beams, and 
heaven is overflowed. 

What thou art we know not; 

What is most like thee ? 

From rainbow clouds there flow not 
Drops so bright to see, 

As from thy presence showers a rain 
of melody. 

Like a poet hidden 

In the light of thought, 

Singing hymns unbidden, 

Till the world is wrought 
To sympathy with hopes and fears it 
heeded not: 

Like a high-born maiden 
In a palace tower, 

Soothing her love-laden 
Soul in secret hour 
With music sweet as love, which over¬ 
flows her bower: 

Like a glow-worm golden 
In a dell of dew, 

Scattering unbcholden 
Its aerial hue 

Among the flowers and grass, which 
screen it from the view: 

Like a rose embowered 
In its own green leaves, 

By warm winds deflowered, 

Till the scent it gives 
Makes faint with too much sweet these 
heavy-winged thieves: 

Sound of vernal showers 
On the twinkling grass, 

Rain-awakened flowers, 

All that ever was 

Joyous and clear, and fresh, thy music 
doth surpass: 


Poems for Children 


270 

Teach us, sprite or bird, 

What sweet thoughts are thine: 

I have never heard 
Praise of love or wine 
That panted forth a flood of rapture 
so divine. 

Chorus Hymenaeal, 

Or triumphal chaunt, 

Matched with thine would be all 
But an empty vaunt, 

A thing wherein we feel there is some 
hidden want. 

What objects are the fountains 
Of thy happy strain? 

What fields, or waves, or mountains ? 
What shapes of sky or plain ? 
What love of thine own kind? what 
ignorance of pain? 

With thy clear keen joyance 
Languor cannot be: 

Shadow of annoyance 
Never came near thee: 

Thou lovest: but ne’er knew love’s 
sad satiety. 

Waking or asleep, 

Thou of death must deem 

Things more true and deep 
Than we mortals dream, 

Or how could thy notes flow in such 
a crystal stream? 

We look before and after 
And pine for what is not: 

Our sincerest laughter 
With some pain is fraught; 

Our sweetest songs are those that tell 
of saddest thought. 

Yet if we could scorn 

Hate, and pride, and fear; 

If we were things born 
Not to shed a tear, 

I know not how thy joy we ever should 
come near. 


Better than all measures 
Of delightful sound, 

Better than all treasures 
That in books are found, 

Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner 
of the ground! 

Teach me half the gladness 
That my brain must know, 

Such harmonious madness 
From my lips would flow, 

The world should listen then, as I am 
listening now. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 

THE BLACKBIRD. 

O Blackbird ! sing me something well: 
While all the neighbours shoot thee 
round, 

I keep smooth plats of fruitful 
ground, 

Where thou may’st warble, eat, and 

dwell. 

The espaliers and the'standards all 
Are thine; the range of lawn and 
park. 

The unnetted black-hearts ripen 
dark, 

All thine, against the garden wall. 

Yet, tho’ I spared ye all the spring, 
Thy sole delight is, sitting still, 
With that gold dagger of thy bill 

• To fret the summer jenneting. 

A golden bill! the silver tongue, 

Cold February loved, is dry: 

Plenty corrupts the melody 

That made thee famous once, when 
young. 

And in the sultry garden-squares, 
Now thy flute-notes are changed to 
coarse, 

I hear thee not at all, or hoarse 

As when a hawker hawks his wares. 


Insects, Birds, and Beasts 


Take warning! he that will not sing 
While yon sun prospers in the blue, 
Shall sing for want, ere leaves are 
new, 

Caught in the frozen palms of Spring. 

Alfred Tennyson. 

MY DOVES. 

My little cloves have left a nest 
Upon an Indian tree, 

Whose leaves fantastic take their rest 
Or motion from the sea; 

For, ever there the sea-winds go 
With sunlit paces to and fro. 

The tropic flowers looked up to it, 
The tropic stars looked down, 

And there my little doves did sit 
With feathers softly brown, 

And glittering eyes that showed their 
right 

To general Nature’s deep delight. 

My little doves were ta ’en away 
From that glad nest of theirs, 
Across an ocean rolling grey, 

And tempest-clouded airs. 

My little doves who lately knew 
The sky and wave by warmth and 
blue. 

And now, within the city prison 
In mist and chillness pent, 

With sudden upward look they listen 
For sounds of past content, 

For lapse of water, smell of breeze, 
Or nut-fruit falling from the trees. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

I HAD A DOVE. 

I had a dove, and the sweet dove died; 
And I have thought it died of griev¬ 
ing; 

0, what could it grieve for ? Its feet 
were tied 

With a ribbon thread of my own 
hand’s weaving. 


271 

Sweet little red feet! why should you 
die? 

Why would you leave me, sweet bird! 
why? 

You lived alone in the forest tree: 

Why, pretty thing! would you not 
live with me? 

I kissed you oft and gave you white 
peas; 

Why not live sweetly, as in the green 
trees ? 

John Keats. 

ROBIN REDBREAST. 

Good-by, good-by to Summer! 

For Summer’s nearly done; 

The garden smiling faintly, 

Cool breezes in the sun; 

Our thrushes now are silent, 

Our swallows flown away,— 

But Robin’s here in coat of brown, 
And scarlet breast-knot gay. 

Robin, Robin Redbreast, 

O Robin dear! 

Robin sings so sweetly 
In the falling of the year. 

Bright yellow, red, and orange, 

The leaves come down in hosts; 

The trees are Indian princes, 

But soon they’ll turn to ghosts; 

The scanty pears and apples 
Hang russet on the bough; 

It’s Autumn, Autumn, Autumn late, 
’Twill soon be Winter now. 

Robin, Robin Redbreast, 

0 Robin dear! 

And what will this poor Robin do ? 
For pinching days are near. 

The fireside for the cricket, 

The wheat-stack for the mouse, 

When trembling night-winds whistle 
And moan all round the house. 


Poems for Children 


272 

The frosty ways like iron, 

The branches plumed with snow,— 
Alas! in Winter dead and dark, 
Where can poor Robin go? 

Robin, Robin Redbreast, 

0 Robin dear! 

And a crumb of bread for Robin, 
His little heart to cheer! 

William Allingliam. 


TO A HEDGE-SPARROW. 

Little flutt’rer! swifter flying, 

Here is none to harm thee near; 
Kite, nor hawk, nor schoolboy prying; 
Little flutt’rer! cease to fear. 

One who would protect thee ever, 
From the schoolboy, kite and hawk, 
Musing, now obtrudes, but never 
Dreamt of plunder in his walk. 

He no weasel, stealing slyly, 

Would permit thy eggs to take; 
Nor the polecat, nor the wily 
Adder, nor the writhed snake. 

May no cuckoos, wandering near thee, 
Lay her egg within thy nest; 

Nor thy young ones, born to cheer 
thee, 

Be destroyed by such a guest! 

Little flutt’rer! swiftly flying, 

Here is none to harm thee near; 
Kite, nor hawk, nor schoolboy prying; 
Little flutt’rer! cease to fear. 


THE NIGHTINGALE. 

As it fell upon a day 
In the merry month of May, 
Sitting in a pleasant shade 
Which a grove of myrtles made, 


Beasts did leap and birds did sing. 
Trees did grow and plants did spring, 
Everything did banish moan, 

Save the Nightingale alone. 

She, poor bird, as all forlorn, 

Lean’d her breast against a thorn, 
And there sung the dolefullest ditty 
That to hear it was great pity. 

Fie, fie, he, now would she cry; 

Tereu, Tereu, by and by: 

That to hear her so complain 
Scarce I could from tears refrain; 
For her griefs so lively shewn 
Made me think upon mine own. 

—Ah, thought I, thou mourn’st in 
vain, 

None takes pity on thy pain: 
Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee; 
Ruthless beasts, they will not cheer 
thee; 

King Pandion, he is dead, 

All thy friends are lapp’d in lead. 

All thy fellow birds do sing 
Careless of thy sorrowing. 

Even so, poor bird, like thee 
None alive will pity me. 

Richard Barnfield. 


ODE TO THE CUCKOO. 

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove! 

Thou messenger of spring! 

Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat, 
And woods thy welcome sing. 

What time the daisy decks the green, 
Thy certain voice we hear; 

Hast thou a star to guide thy path, 
Or mark the rolling year? 

Delightful visitant, with thee 
I hail the time of flowers, 

And hear the sound of music sweet 
From birds among the bowers. 


Insects, Birds, and Beasts 


The schoolboy wandering through the 
wood 

To pull the primrose gay, 

Starts the new voice of spring to hear, 
And imitates the lay. 

What time the pea puts on the bloom 
Thou fliest thy vocal vale 
An annual guest in other lands, 
Another spring to hail. 

Sweet bird, thy bower is ever green, 
Thy sky is ever clear; 

Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, 

No winter in thy year! 

0 could I fly, I’d fly with thee! 

We’d make with joyous wing, 

Our annual visit o’er the globe, 
Companions of the spring. 

Michael Bruce. 


TO THE CUCKOO. 

0 blithe newcomer! I have heard, 

I hear thee and rejoice. 

0 Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, 

Or but a wandering Voice? 

While I am lying on the grass 
Thy twofold shout I hear; 

From hill to hill it seems to pass, 

At once far off and near. 

Though babbling only, to the vale, 

Of sunshine and of flowers, 

Thou bringest unto me a tale 
Of visionary hours. 

Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! 
Even yet thou art to me 

No Bird, but an invisible Thing, 

A voice, a mystery. 


273 

The same whom in my Schoolboy days 
I listened to; that cry 

Which made me look a thousand ways, 
In bush, and tree, and sky. 

To seek thee did I often rove 
Through woods and on the green, 

And thou wert still a hope, a love, 
Still longed for, never seen. 

And I can listen to thee yet; 

Can lie upon the plain 

And listen till I do beget 
That golden time again. 

O blessed Bird; the earth we pace 
Again appears to be 

An unsubstantial, faery place, 

That is fit home for Thee! 

William Wordsworth. 

THE BIRDS OF PASSAGE. 

Birds, joyous birds of the wandering 
wing! 

Whence is it ye come with the flowers 
of spring? 

—“We come from the shores of the 
green old Nile, 

From the land where the roses of 
Sharon smile, 

From the palms that wave through 
the Indian sky, 

From the myrrh-trees of glowing 
Araby. 

“We have swept o’er cities in song 
renowned, 

Silent they lie with the desert round! 

We have crossed the proud rivers 
whose tide hath rolled 

All dark with the warrior-blood of 
old; 

And each worn wing hath regained its 
home 

Under peasant’s roof or monarch’s 
dome. ,, 


274 


Poems for Children 


And what have ye found in the mon¬ 
arch’s dome, 

Since last ye traversed the blue sea’s 
foam ? 

—“We have found a change;—we 
have found a pall, 

And a gloom o’ershadowing the ban¬ 
quet hall; 

And a mark on the floor as of life- 
drops spilt;— 

Nought looks the same save the nest 
we built.” 

Oh! joyous birds, it hath ever been so; 

Through the halls of kings doth the 
tempest go, 

But the huts of hamlets lie still and 
deep, 

And the hills o’er their quiet a vigil 
keep:— 

Say, what have ye found in the peas¬ 
ant’s cot 

Since last ye parted from that sweet 
spot? 

“A change we have found there, and 
many a change, 

Faces and footsteps, and all things 
strange; 

Gone are the heads of the silvery hair, 

And the young that were have a brow 
of care; 

And the place is hushed where the 
children played; 

Nought looks the same save the nest 
we made.” 

Sad is your tale of the beautiful earth, 

Birds that o’ersweep it in power and 
mirth; 

Yet through the wastes of the track¬ 
less air 

Ye have a guide, and shall we despair? 

Ye over desert and deep have passed, 

So may we reach our bright home at 
last. 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 


THE FIRST SWALLOW. 

The gorse is yellow on the heath; 

The banks with speed-well flowers 
are gay; 

The oaks are budding, and beneath, 

The hawthorn soon will bear the 
wreath, 

The silver wreath of May. 

The welcome guest of settled spring, 
The swallow, too, is come at last; 

Just at sunset, when thrushes sing, 

I saw her dash with rapid wing, 

And hailed her as she passed. 

Come, summer visitant, attach 
To my reed roof your nest of clay, 

And let my ear your music catch, 

Low twittering underneath the 
thatch, 

At the grey dawn of day. 

Charlotte Smith. 

TO A SWALLOW, BUILDING 
UNDER OUR EAVES. 

Thou too hast traveled, little flutter¬ 
ing thing,— 

Hast seen the world, and now thy 
weary wing 

Thou too must rest. 

But much, my little bird, could ’st 
thou but tell, 

I’d give to know why here thou lik’st 
so well 

To build thy nest. 

For thou hast passed fair places in thy 
flight; 

A world lay all beneath thee where to 
light; 

And, strange thy taste. 

Of all the varied scenes that met thine 
eye, 

Of all the spots for building ’neath 
the sky, 

To choose this waste! 


Insects, Birds, and Beasts 


Did fortune try thee?—was thy little 
purse 

Perchance run low, and thou, afraid 
of worse, 

Pelt here secure? 

Ah, no! thou need’st not gold, thou 
happy one! 

Thou know’st it not. Of all God's 
creatures, man 
Alone is poor. 

What was it, then ?—some mystic turn 
of thought, 

Caught under German eaves, and 
hither brought, 

Marring thine eye 

For the world’s loveliness, till thou art 
grown 

A sober thing that dost but mope and 
moan, 

Not knowing why? 

Nay, if thy mind be sound, I need not 
ask, 

Since here I see thee working at thy 
task 

With wing and beak. 

A well-laid scheme doth that small 
head contain, 

At which thou work’st, brave bird, 
with might and main, 

Nor more need’st seek. 

In truth, I rather take it thou hast got 

By instinct wise much sense about thy 
lot, 

And hast small care 

Whether an Eden or a desert be 

Thy home, so thou remain’st alive, 
and free 

To skim the air. 

God speed thee, pretty bird! May 
thy small nest 

With little ones all in good time be 
blest. 

I love thee much; 


2 75 

For well thou managest that life of 
thine, 

While I—oh, ask not what I do with 
mine! 

Would I were such! 

Jane Welsh Carlyle. 

AN EPITAPH ON A ROBIN- 
REDBREAST. 

Tread lightly here, for here, ’tis said, 
When piping winds are hush’d 
around, 

A small note wakes from under¬ 
ground, 

Where now his tiny bones are laid. 
Nor more in lone or leafless groves, 
With ruffled wing and faded breast, 
His friendless, homeless spirit roves; 
Gone to the world where birds are 
blest! 

Where never cat glides o ’er the green, 
Or schoolboy’s giant form is seen; 
But love, and joy, and smiling Spring 
Inspire their little souls to sing! 

Samuel Rogers. 

THE REDBREAST CHASING A 
BUTTERFLY. 

Can this be the bird to man so good, 
That, after their bewildering, 
Covered with leaves the little chil¬ 
dren 

So painfully in the wood? 

What ailed thee, Robin, that thou 
could’st pursue 
A beautiful creature 
That is gentle by nature? 

Beneath the summer sky, 

From flower to flower let him fly; 

’Tis all that he wishes to do. 

The cheerer thou of our in-door sad¬ 
ness, 

He is the friend of our summer glad¬ 
ness; 


Poems for Children 


276 

"What hinders then that ye should be 
Playmates in the sunny weather, 

And fly about in the air together ? 

His beautiful wings in crimson are 
drest, 

A crimson as bright as thine own: 

If thou wouldst be happy in thy nest, 
0 pious bird! whom man loves best, 
Love him, or leave him alone! 

William Wordsworth. 


THE HORNED OWL. 

In the hollow tree in the old grey 
tower, 

The spectral owl doth dwell; 

Dull, hated, despised in the sunshine 
hour; 

But at dusk lie’s abroad and well: 

Not a bird of the forest e’er mates 
with him; 

All mock him outright by day; 

But at night, when the woods grow 
still and dim, 

The boldest will shrink away. 

0, when the night falls, and roosts 
the fowl, 

Then, then is the reign of the 
horned owl! 

And the owl hath a bride who is fond 
and bold, 

And loveth the wood’s deep gloom ; 

And with eyes like the shine of the 
moonshine cold 

She awaiteth her ghastly groom! 

Not a feather she moves, not a carol 
she sings, 

As she waits in her tree so still; 

But when her heart heareth his flap¬ 
ping wings, 

She hoots out her welcome shrill! 

0, when the moon shines, and 
dogs do howl, 

Then, then is the joy of the 
horned owl. 


Mourn not for the owl nor his gloomy 
plight! 

The owl hath his share of good: 

If a prisoner he be in the broad day¬ 
light, 

He is lord in the dark green wood! 

Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly 
mate; 

They are each unto each a pride— 

Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange 
dark fate 

Hath rent them from all beside! 

So when the night falls, and dogs do 
howl, 

Sing ho! for the reign of the horned 
owl! 

We know not alway who are kings by 
day, 

But the king of the night is the bold 
brown owl. 

Barry Cornwall. 


THE OWL. 

When cats run home and light is 
come, 

And dew is cold upon the ground, 
And the far-off stream is dumb, 

And the whirring sail goes round, 
And the whirring sail goes round; 
Alone and warming his five wits, 
The white owl in the belfry sits. 

When merry milkmaids click the latch, 
And rarely smells the new-mown 
hay, 

And the cock hath sung beneath the 
thatch 

Twice or thrice his roundelay, 
Twice or thrice his roundelay; 
Alone and warming his five wits, 
The white owl in the belfry sits. 

Alfred Tennyson. 


Insects, Birds, and Beasts 


THE GREEN LINNET. 

Beneath these fruit-tree boughs, that 
shed 

Their snow-white blossoms on my 
head, 

With brightest sunshine round me 
spread 

Of Spring’s unclouded weather; 

In this sequester’d nook how sweet 
To sit upon my orchard seat! 

And flowers and birds once more to 
greet, 

My last year’s friends together. 

One have I mark’d, the happiest guest 
In all this corner of the blest, 

Hail to thee, far above the rest 
In joy of voice and pinion, 

Thou Linnet! in thy green array, 
Presiding spirit here to-day, 

Dost lead the revels of the May, 

And this is thy dominion. 

While thus before my eyes he gleams, 
A brother of the leaves he seems, 
When in a moment forth he teems, 

His little song in gushes: 

As if it pleas’d him to disdain 
And mock the form which he did 
feign, 

While he was dancing with the train 
Of leaves among the bushes. 

William Wordsworth. 

THE PEWEE. 

The listening Dryads hushed the 
woods; 

The boughs were thick, and thin 
and few 

The golden ribbons fluttering 
through; 

Their sun-embroidered, leafy hoods 
The lindens lifted to the blue: 

Only a little forest-brook 

The farthest hem of silence shook: 


277 

When in the hollow shades I heard,— 
Was it a spirit, or a bird? 

Or, strayed from Eden, desolate, 

Some Peri calling to her mate, 

Whom nevermore her mate would 
cheer ? 

“Pe-ri! pe-ri! peer!” 

Through rocky clefts the brooklet fell 
With plashy pour, that scarce was 
sound, 

But only quiet less profound, 

A stillness fresh and audible: 

A yellow leaflet to the ground 
Whirled noiselessly: with wing of 
gloss 

A hovering sunbeam brushed the moss, 
And, wavering brightly over it, 

Sat like a butterfly alit: 

The owlet in his open door 
Stared roundly: while the breezes bore 
The plaint to far-off places drear,— 
‘ ‘ Pe-ree! pe-ree! peer! ’ ’ 

To trace it in its green retreat 
I sought among the boughs in vain; 
And followed still the wandering 
strain, 

So melancholy and so sweet 

The dim-eyed violets yearned with 
pain. 

’Twas now a sorrow in the air, 

Some nymph’s immortalized despair 
Haunting the woods and waterfalls; 
And now, at long, sad intervals, 
Sitting unseen in dusky shade, 

His plaintive pipe some fairy played, 
With long-drawn cadence thin and 
clear,— 

11 Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer! ’ ’ 

Long-drawn and clear its closes 
were,— 

As if the hand of Music through 
The sombre robe of Silence drew 
A thread of golden gossamer: 

So pure a flute the fairy blew. 


Poems for Children 


' 278 

Like beggared princes of the wood, 

In silver rags the birches stood; 

The hemlocks, lordly counselors, 

Were dumb; the sturdy servitors, 

In beechen jackets patched and gray, 
Seemed waiting spellbound all the day 
That low, entrancing note to hear,— 
“Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!” 


I quit the search, and sat me down 
Beside the brook, irresolute, 

And watched a little bird in suit 
Of sober olive, soft and brown, 

Perched in the maple branches, 
mute: 

With greenish gold its vest was 
fringed, 

Its tiny cap was ebon-tinged, 

With ivory pale its wings were barred, 
And its dark eyes were tender-starred. 
“Dear bird,” I said, “what is thy 
name ? ’’ 

And thrice the mournful answer came, 
So faint and far, and yet so near,— 
“Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!” 


For so I found my forest bird,— 

The pewee of the loneliest woods, 
Sole singer in these solitudes, 

Which never robin’s whistle stirred, 
Where never bluebird’s plume in¬ 
trudes. 

Quick darting through the dewy morn, 

The redstart trilled his twittering 
horn, 

And vanished in thick boughs: at 
even, 

Like liquid pearls fresh showered 
from heaven, 

The high notes of the lone wood- 
thrush 

Fall on the forest’s holy hush: 

But thou all day complainest 
here,— 

“Pe-wee! pe-wee! peer!” 


Hast thou, too, in thy little breast, 
Strange longings for a happier 
lot,— 

For love, for life, thou know’st not 
Avhat,— 

A yearning, and a vague unrest, 

For something still which thou hast 
not ?— 

Thou soul of some benighted child 
That perished, crying in the wild! 

Or lost, forlorn, and wandering maid, 
By love allured, by love betrayed, 
Whose spirit with her latest sigh 
Arose, a little winged cry, 

Above her chill and mossy bier! 
“Dear me! dear me! dear!” 

Ah, no such piercing sorrow mars 
The pewee’s life of cheerful ease! 
He sings, or leaves his song to seize 
An insect sporting in the bars 

Of mild bright light that gild the 
trees. 

A very poet he! For him 
All pleasant places still and dim: 

His heart, a spark of heavenly fire, 
Burns with undying, sweet desire: 
And so he sings, and so his song, 
Though heard not by the hurrying 
throng, 

Is solace to the pensive ear: 
“Pewee! pewee! peer!” 

John Townsend Trowbridge. 


SOLILOQUY OF A WATER- 
WAGTAIL. 

11 Hear your sovereign’s proclamation, 
All good subjects, young and old! 
I’m the Lord of the Creation, 

I—a water-wagtail bold! 

All around, and all you see, 

All the world was made for me! 


Insects, Birds, and Beasts 


“Yonder sun, so proudly shining, 
Rises—when I leave my nest; 

And, behind the hills declining, 

Sets—when I retire to rest. 

Morn and evening, thus you see, 

Day and night, were made for me! 

“Vernal gales to love invite me; 
Summer sheds for me her beams; 
Autumn’s genial scenes delight me; 
Winter paves with ice my streams; 
All the year is mine you see, 

Seasons change like moons for me! 

“On the heads of giant mountains, 
Or beneath the shady trees; 

By the banks of warbling fountains 
I enjoy myself at ease: 

Hills and valleys, thus you see, 
Groves and rivers, made for me! 

“Boundless are my vast dominions; 

I can hop, or swim, or fly; 

When I please, my towering pinions 
Trace my empire through the sky: 
Air and elements, you see, 

Heaven and earth, were made for me ! 

“Birds and insects, beasts and fishes, 
All their humble distance keep; 

Man, subservient to my wishes, 

Sows the harvest which I reap: 
Mighty man himself, you see, 

All that breathe, were made for me ! 

“ ’Twas for my accommodation 
Nature rose when I was born; 
Should I die—the whole creation 
Back to nothing would return: 

Sun, moon, stars, the world, you see, 
Sprung—exist—will fall with me.” 

Here the pretty prattler, ending, 
Spread his wings to soar away; 

But a cruel hawk, descending, 
Pounced him up—a helpless prey. 
Could’st thou not, poor wagtail, see 
That the hawk was made for thee? 

James Montgomery. 


2 79 

THE THROSTLE. 

“Summer is coming, summer is com¬ 
ing, 

I know it, I know it, I know it. 

Light again, leaf again, life again, 
love again,” 

Yes, my wild little Poet. 

Sing the new year in under the blue. 

Last year you sang it as gladly. 

“New, new, new, new!” Is it then 
so new 

That you should carol so madly? 

“Love again, song again, nest again, 
young again, ’ ’ 

Never a prophet so crazy! 

And hardly a daisy as yet, little 
friend, 

See, there is hardly a daisy. 

“Here again, here, here, here, happy 
year! ’ ’ 

0 warble unchidden, unbidden! 

Summer is coming, is coming, my 
dear, 

And all the winters are hidden. 

Alfred Tennyson. 


THE PARROT. 

The deep affections of the breast, 
That Heaven to living things im¬ 
parts, 

Are not exclusively possessed 
By human hearts. 

A parrot from the Spanish main, 

Full young, and early caged, came 
o’er 

With bright wings, to the bleak do¬ 
main 

Of Mulla’s* shore: 

* Mulla .—The island of Mull, one of 

the Hebrides. 


Poems for Children 


280 

To spicy groves, where he had won 
His plumage of resplendent hue, 
Ilis native fruits, and skies, and sun, 
He bade adieu. 

For these he changed the smoke of 
turf 

A heathery land and misty sky, 

And turned on rocks and raging surf 
His golden eye. 

But petted, in our climate cold 
He lived and chattered many a day; 
Until with age, from green and gold 
His wings grew grey. 

At last when blind and seeming dumb, 
He scolded, laughed, and spoke no 
more, 

A Spanish stranger chanced to come 
To Mulla’s shore. 

He hailed the bird in Spanish speech, 
The bird in Spanish speech replied, 
Flapped round the cage with joyous 
screech, 

Dropped down and died. 

Thomas Campbell. 


THE BOBOLINKS. 

When Nature had made all her birds, 
With no more cares to think on, 
She gave a rippling laugh, and out 
There flew a Bobolinkon. 

She laughed again; out flew a mate; 

A breeze of Eden bore them 
Across the fields of Paradise, 

The sunrise reddening o’er them. 

Incarnate sport and -holiday, 

They flew and sang forever; 

Their souls through June were all in 
tune, 

Their wings were weary never. 


Their tribe, still drunk with air and 
light, 

And perfume of the meadow, 

Go reeling up and down the sky, 

In sunshine and in shadow. 

One springs from out the dew-wet 
grass; 

Another follows after; 

The morn is Ihrilling with their songs 
And peals of fairy laughter. 

From out the marshes and the brook, 
They set the tall weeds swinging, 
And meet and frolic in the air, 

Half prattling, and half singing. 

When morning winds sweep meadow 
lands 

In green and russet billows, 

And toss the lonely elm-tree’s boughs, 
And silver all the willows, 

I see you buffeting the breeze, 

Or with its motion swaying, 

Your notes half drowned against the 
wind, 

Or down the current playing. 

When far away o’er grassy flats, 
Where the thick wood commences, 
The white-sleeved mowers look like 
specks, 

Beyond the zigzag fences, 

And noon is hot, and barn-roofs gleam 
White in the pale blue distance, 

I hear the saucy minstrels still 
In chattering persistence. 

When eve her domes of opal fire 
Piles round the blue horizon, 

Or thunder rolls from hill to hill 
A Kyrie Elieson, 


Insects, Birds, and Beasts 


Still merriest of the merry birds, 
Your sparkle is unfading,— 

Pied harlequins of June,—no end 
Of song and masquerading. 

######* 

Hope springs with you: I dread no 
more 

Despondency and dullness; 

For Good Supreme can never fail 
That gives such perfect fulness. 

The life that floods the happy fields 
With song and light and color, 

Will shape our lives to richer states, 
And heap our measures fuller. 

* 

Christopher Pearse Cranch. 


THE DYING SWAN. 

The plain was grassy, wild and bare, 
Wide, wild, and open to the air, 
Which had built up everywhere 
An under-roof of doleful gray. 

With an inner voice the river ran, 
Adown it floated a dying swan, 

And loudly did lament. 

It was the middle of the day. 

Ever the weary wind went on, 

And took the reed-tops as it went. 

Some blue peaks in the distance rose, 
And white against the cold-white sky, 
Shone out their crowning snows. 

One willow over the river wept, 
And shook the wave as the wind did 
sigh; 

Above in the wind was the swallow, 
Chasing itself at its own wild will, 
And far thro’ the marish green 
and still 

The tangled water-courses slept, 
Shot over with purple, and green, and 
yellow. 


281 

The wild swan’s death-hymn took the 
soul 

Of that waste place with joy 
Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear 
The warble was low, and full and 
clear: 

And floating about the under sky, 
Prevailing in weakness, the coronach 
stole 

Sometimes afar, and sometimes a near, 
But anon her awful jubilant voice, 
With a music strange and manifold, 
Flow’d forth on a carol free and bold 
As when a mighty people rejoice 
With shawms, and with cymbals, and 
harps of gold, 

And the tumult of their acclaim is 
roll’d 

Thro’ the open gates of the city afar, 
To the shepherd who watcheth the 
evening star. 

And the creeping mosses and clamber¬ 
ing weeds, 

And the willow-branches hoar and 
dank, 

And the wavy swell of the soughing 
reeds, 

And the wave-worn horns of the echo¬ 
ing bank, 

And the silvery marish-flowers that 
throng 

The desolate creeks and pools among, 
Were flooded over with eddying song. 

Alfred Tennyson. 

TO AN ORIOLE. 

How falls it, Oriole, thou hast come to 

fly 

In tropic splendor through our North¬ 
ern sky? 

At some glad moment was it nature’s 
choice 

To dower a scrap of sunset with a 
voice ? 


Poems for Children 


282 

Or did some orange tulip, flaked with 
black, 

In some forgotten garden, ages back, 

Yearning toward Heaven until its 
wish was heard, 

Desire unspeakably to be a bird ? 

Edgar Fawcett. 

THE HUMMING-BIRD. 

The Humming-bird! the Humming¬ 
bird ! 

So fairy-like and bright; 

It lives among the sunny flowers, 

A creature of delight! 

i 

In the radiant islands of the East, 
Where fragrant spices grow, 

A thousand, thousand Humming-birds 
Go glancing to and fro. 

Like living fires they flit about, 

Scarce larger than a bee, 

Among the broad palmetto leaves, 
And through the fan-palm tree. 

And in those wild and verdant woods, 
Where stately moras tower, 

Where hangs from branching tree to 
tree 

The scarlet passion-flower; 

Where on the mighty river banks, 

La Plate and Amazon, 

The cayman, like an old tree trunk, 
Lies basking in the sun; 

There builds her nest the Humming¬ 
bird, 

Within the ancient wood— 

Her nest of silky cotton down, 

And rears her tiny brood. 


She hangs it to a slender twig, 

Where waves it light and free, 

As the campanero tolls his song, 

And rocks the mighty tree. 

All crimson is her shining breast, 

Like to the red, red rose; 

Her wing is the changeful green and 
blue 

That the neck of the peacock shows. 

Thou, happy, happy Humming-bird, 
No winter round thee lours; 

Thou never saw ’st a leafless tree, 

Nor land without sweet flowers. 

A reign of summer joyfulness 
To thee for life is given; 

Thy food, the honey from the flower, 
Thy drink, the dew from heaven! 

Mary Iiowitt. 


WILD GEESE. 

How oft against the sunset sky or 
moon 

I watched that moving zigzag of 
spread wings 

I 11 unforgotten Autumns gone too 
soon, 

In unforgotten Springs! 

Creatures of desolation, far they fly 

Above all lands bound by the curl¬ 
ing foam; 

In misty fens, wild moors and track¬ 
less sky 

These wild things have their home. 

They know the tundra of Siberian 
coasts, 

And tropic marshes by the Indian 
seas; 

They know the clouds and night and 
starry hosts 

From Crux to Pleiades. 


In sects, Birds, and Beasts 


Dark flying rune against the western 
glow— 

It tells the sweep and loneliness of 
things, 

Symbol of Autumns vanished long 
ago. 

Symbol of coming Springs! 

Frederick Peterson. 

THE CHAFFINCH’S NEST AT SEA. 

In Scotland’s realm, forlorn and bare, 
The history chanced of late— 

The history of a wedded pair, 

A chaffinch and his mate. 

The spring drew near, each felt a 
breast 

With genial instinct filled; 

They paired, and would have built a 
nest, 

But found not where to build. 

The heaths uncovered, and the moors, 
Except with snow and sleet, 
Sea-beaten rocks and naked shores, 
Could yield them no retreat. 

Long time a breeding-place they 
sought, 

Till both grew vexed and tired; 

At length a ship arriving brought 
The good so long desired. 

A ship! could such a restless thing 
Afford them place of rest? 

Or was the merchant charged to bring 
The homeless birds a nest? 

Hush;—silent readers profit most— 
This racer of the sea 
Proved kinder to them than the 
coast,— 

It served them with a tree. 


283 

But such a tree! ’twas shaven deal, 
The tree they call a mast; 

And had a hollow with a wheel, 
Through which the tackle passed. 

Within that cavity, aloft, 

Their roofless home they fixed; 
Formed with materials neat and soft, 
Bents, wool, and feathers mixed. 


Four ivory eggs soon pave its floor, 
With russet specks bedight: 

The vessel weighs, forsakes the shore. 
And lessens to the sight. 


The mother-bird is*gone to sea 
As she had changed her kind; 

But goes the male? Far wiser, he 
Is doubtless left behind. 

No:—soon as from ashore he saw 
The winged mansion move, 

He flew to reach it, by a law 
Of never-failing love; 

Then perching at his consort’s side, 
Was briskly borne along; 

The billows and the blasts defied, 

And cheered her with a song. 

The seaman, with sincere delight, 

His feathered shipmate eyes, 

Scarce less exulting in the sight 
Than when he tows a prize. 

For seamen much believe in signs, 
And, from a chance so new, 

Each some approaching good divines; 
And may his hopes be true! 

William Coivper. 


284 


Poems for Children 


TO A WATER FOWL. 

Whither, ’midst falling dew. 
While blow the heavens with the last 
steps of day, 

Far through their rosy depths dost 
thou pursue 

Thy solitary way? 

Vainly the fowler’s eye 
Might mark thy distant flight to do 
thee wrong, 

As, darkly painted on the crimson sky, 

Thy figure floats along. 

Seek’st thou the plashy brink 
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide, 
Or where the rocking billows rise and 
sink 

On the chafed ocean side ? 

There is a Power whose care 
Teaches thy way along that pathless 
coast, 

The desert and illimitable air,— 

Lone wandering but not lost. 

All day thy wings have fann’d, 

At that far height the cold thin atmos¬ 
phere, 

Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome 
land, 

Though the dark night is near. 

And soon that toil shall end; 
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, 
and rest 

And scream among thy fellows; reeds 
shall bend 

Soon o’er thy shelter’d nest, 

Thou’rt gone, the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallow’d up thy form: yet on 
my heart 

Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast 
given, 

And shall not soon depart. 


He, who from zone to zone 
Guides through the boundless sky thy 
certain flight, 

In the long way that I must tread 
alone, 

Will lead my steps aright. 

William Cullen Bryant. 


THE SEA-MEW. 

How joyously the young sea-mew 
Lay dreaming on the waters blue, 
Whereon our little bark had thrown 
A little shade, the only one, 

But shadows ever man pursue. 

Familiar with the waves and free 
As if their own white foam were he, 
His heart upon the heart of ocean 
Lay learning all its mystic motion, 
And throbbing to the throbbing sea. 

We were not cruel, yet did sunder 
His white wing from the blue waves 
under, 

And bound it while his fearless eyes 
Shone up to ours in calm surprise, 

As deeming us some ocean wonder. 

We bore our ocean bird unto 
A grassy place where he might view 
The flowers that curtsey to the bees, 
The waving of the tall green trees, 
The falling of the silver dew. 

But flowers of earth were pale to him 
Who had seen the rainbow fishes swim; 
And when earth’s dew around him 
lay, 

He thought of ocean’s winged spray, 
And his eye waxed sad and dim. 


285 


Insects, Birds, and Beasts 


The green trees round him only made 
A prison with their darksome shade, 
And drooped his wing, and mourned 
he 

For his own boundless glittering sea— 
Albeit he knew not they could fade. 

He lay down in his grief to die, 
(First looking to the sea-like sky 
That hath no waves,) because, alas! 
Our human touch did on him pass, 
And, with our touch, our agony. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 

THE STORMY PETREL. 

A thousand miles from land are we, 
Tossing about on the roaring sea; 
From billow to bounding billow cast, 
Like fleecy snow on the stormy blast: 
The sails are scattered abroad like 
weeds; 

The strong masts shake like quivering 
reeds; 

The mighty cables, and iron chains, 
The hull, which all earthly strength 
disdains, 

They strain and they crack, and hearts 
like stone 

Their natural proud strength disown. 

Up and down! Up and down! 

From the base of the wave to the bil¬ 
low’s crown, 

And amidst the flashing and feathery 
foam, 

The Stormy Petrel finds a home— 

A home, if such a place may be, 

For her who lives on the wide, wide 
sea, 

O11 the craggy ice, in the frozen air 
And only seeketh her rocky lair. 

To warm her young, and to teach them 
to spring 

At once o’er the waves on their stormy 
wing! 

Barry Cornwall. 


CHANTICLEER. 

Of all the birds from East to West 
That tuneful are and dear, 

I love that farmyard bird the best, 
They call him Chanticleer. 

Gold plume and copper plume, 

Comb of scarlet gay; 

’Tis he that scatters night and gloom , 
And whistles back the day! 

He is the sun’s brave herald 
That, ringing his blithe horn, 

Calls round a world dew-pearled 
The heavenly airs of morn. 

O clear gold, shrill and bold! 

He calls through creeping mist 

The mountains from the night and 
cold 

To rose and amethyst. 

He sets the birds to singing, 

And calls the flowers to rise; 

The morning cometh, bringing 
Sweet sleep to heavy eyes. 

Gold plume and silver plume, 

Comb of coral gay; 

’Tis he packs off the night and gloom „ 
And summons home the day! 

Black fear he sends it flying, 

Black care he drives afar; 

And creeping shadows sighing 
Before the morning star. 

The birds of all the forest 
Have dear and pleasant cheer, 

But yet I hold the rarest 
The farmyard Chanticleer. 

Red cock or black cock, 

Gold cock or white, 

The flower of all the feathered flock, 
He whistles back the light! 

Katharine Tynan II ink son. 


X 


Humorous Verse 


THE JOVIAL WELSHMEN. 

There were three jovial Welshmen, 
As I have heard them say, 

And they would go a-hunting 
Upon St. David’s day. 

All the day they hunted, 

But nothing could they find; 

But a ship a-sailing, 

A-sailing with the wind. 

One said it was a ship, 

The other he said nay; 

The third said it was a house, 

With the chimney blown away. 

And all the night they hunted, 

And nothing could they find 

But the moon a-gliding, 

A-gliding with the wind. 

One said it was the moon, 

The other he said nay; 

The other said it was a cheese, 

The half o’t cut away. 

And all the day they hunted, 

And nothing could they find 

But a hedgehog in a bramble bush, 
And that they left behind. 

The first said it was a hedgehog, 
The second he said nay; 

The third it was a pin-cushion 
And the pins stuck in wrong way. 


And all the night they hunted, 

And nothing could they find 
But a hare in a turnip-field, 

And that they left behind. 

The first said it was a hare, 

The second he said nay; 

The third said it was a calf, 

And the cow had run away. 

And all the day they hunted, 

And nothing could they find 
But an owl in a holly-tree, 

And that they left behind. 

One said it was an owl, 

The other he said nay; 

The third said ’twas an old man, 

And his beard growing grey. 

Unknown. 

CAPTAIN REECE. 

Of all the ships upon the blue, 

No ship contained a better crew 
Than that of worthy Captain Reece, 
Commanding of The Mantelpiece. 

He was adored by all his men, 

For worthy Captain Reece, r. n., 

Did all that lay within him to 
Promote the comfort of his crew. 

If ever they were dull or sad 
Their captain danced to them like 
mad, 

Or told to make the time pass by 
Droll legends of his infancy. 


Humorous Verse 


A feather bed had every man, 

Warm slippers and hot-water can, 
Brown Windsor from the captain’s 
store, 

A valet, too, to every four. 

Did they with thirst in summer burn 
Lo! seltzogenes at every turn, 

And all on very sultry days 
Cream ices handed round on trays. 

Then currant wine and ginger pops 
Stood handily on all the “tops”; 
And also, with amusement rife, 

A 4 4 Zoetrope, or Wheel of Life. ’’ 

New volumes came across the sea, 
From Mister Mudie’s libraree; 

The Times and Saturday Review 
Beguiled the leisure of the crew. 

Kind-hearted Captain Reece, r. n.. 
Was quite devoted to his men; 

In point of fact, good Captain Reece 
B eatified The Mantelpiece. 

s' 

One summer eve at half-past ten, 

He said (addressing all his men) : 
“Come tell me, please, what I can do 
To please and gratify my crew. 

4 4 By any reasonable plan 
I ’ll make you happy if I can; 

My own convenience count as nil: 

It is my duty and I will. ’ ’ 

Then up and answered William Lee, 
The kindly captain’s coxswain he, 

A nervous, shy, close-spoken man, 

He cleared his throat and thus began: 

“You have a daughter, Captain 
Reece, 

Ten female cousins and a niece, 

A ma, if what I’m told is true, 

Six sisters, and an aunt or two. 


287 

“Now somehow, sir, it seems to me, 
More friendly like we all should be, 

If you united of ’em to 
Unmarried members of the crew. 

“If you’d ameliorate our life, 

Let each select from them a wife; 

And as for nervous me, old pal, 

Give me your own enchanting gal! * 

Good Captain Reece, that worthy 
man, 

Debated on his coxswain’s plan: 

44 1 quite agree, ’ ’ he said, 44 Oh! Bill; 
It is my duty, and I will. 

“My daughter, that enchanting gurl, 
Has just been promised to an earl, 
And all my other familee 
To peers of various degree. 

“But what are dukes and viscounts to 
The happiness of all my crew! 

The word I gave you I ’ll fulfil ; 

It is my duty, and I will. 

“As you desire it shall befall, 

I’ll settle thousands on you all, 

And I shall be despite my hoard, 

The only bachelor 011 board. ’ ’ 

The boatswain of The Mantelpiece , 

He blushed and spoke to Captain 
Reece : 

“I beg your honour’s leave,” he said, 
44 If you should wish to go and wed, 

4 4 1 have a widowed mother who 
Would be the very thing for you— 
She long has loved you from afar: 

She washes for you, Captain R. ’ ’ 

The Captain saw the dame that day— 
Addressed her in his playful way: 

44 And did it want a wedding ring? 

It was a tempting ickle sing! 


288 


Poems for Children 


“Well, well, the chaplain I will seek, 
Well all be married this day week, 

At yonder church upon the hill; 

It is my duty, and I will ? ’ ’ 

The sisters, cousins, aunts, and niece, 
And widowed ilia of Captain Reece, 
Attended there as they were bid; 

It was their duty, and they did. 

'William ScJizcenck Gilbert . 

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF 
A MAD DOG. 

Good people all, of every sort, 

Give ear unto my song, 

And if you find it wondrous short, 

It cannot hold you long. 

In Islington there was a man 
Of whom the world might say, 

That still a godly race he ran, 
Whene’er he went to pray. 

A kind and gentle heart he had, 

To comfort friends and foes; 

The naked every day he clad, 

When he put on his clothes. 

And in that town a dog was found, 

As many dogs there be, 

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and 
hound 

And curs of low degree. 

This dog and man at first were friends, 
But when a pique began, 

The dog, to gain some private ends, 
Went mad and bit the man. 

Around from all the neighbouring 
streets 

The wondering neighbours ran, 
And swore the dog had lost his wits, 

To bite so good a man. 


The'wound it seemed both sore and sad 
To every Christian eye; 

And while they swore the dog was 
mad, 

They swore the man would die. 

But soon a wonder came to light, 
That show’d the rogues they lied; 
The man recovered of the bite 
The dog it was that died. 

Oliver Goldsmith. 


ODE ON THE DEATH OF A 
FAVOURITE CAT DROWNED 
IN A TUB OF GOLD FISHES. 

’T was on a lofty vase’s side 
Where China’s gayest art had d} r ed 
The azure flowers that blow; 
Demurest of the tabby kind, 

The pensive Selima, reclin’d, 

Gaz’d on the lake below. 

Her conscious tail her joy declar’d; 
The fair round face, the snowy beard, 
The velvet of her paws, 

Her coat that with the tortoise vies, 
Her ears of jet and emerald eyes, 

She saw: and purred applause. 

Still had she gaz’d; but midst the tide 
Two angel forms were seen to glide, 
The genii of the stream: 

Their scaly armour’s Tyrian hue, 
Through richest purple to the view, 
Betray’d a golden gleam. 

The hapless Nymph with wonder saw; 
A whisker first, and then a claw, 

With many an ardent wish, 

She stretch’d, in vain, to reach the 
prize: 

What female heart can gold despise? 
What cat’s averse to fish ? 


Humorous Verse 


Presumptuous Maid! with looks in¬ 
tent, 

Again she stretch’d, again she bent, 
Nor knew the gulf between 
(Malignant Fate sat by, and smil’d). 
The slipp ’ry verge her feet beguiled, 
She tumbled headlong in. 

Eight times emerging from the flood 
She mew’d to every wat’ry god 
Some speedy aid to send. 

No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr’d; 
Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard. 

A fav ’rite has no friend! 

From hence, ye beauties, undeceived, 
Know, one false step is ne’er retriev’d, 
And be with caution bold. 

Not all that tempts your wand’ring 
eyes 

And heedless hearts, is lawful prize, 
Nor all that glitters gold. 

Thomas Gray. 

THE JUMBLIES. 

They went to sea in a sieve, they did; 

In a sieve they went to sea; 

In spite of all their friends could say, 
On a winter’s morn, on a stormy day, 
In a sieve they went to sea. 

And when the sieve turned round and 
round, 

And every one cried, “You’ll all be 
drowned! ’ ’ 

They called aloud, “Our sieve ain’t 
big; 

But we don’t care a button; we don’t 
care a fig: 

In a sieve we ’ll go to sea! ’ ’ 

Far and few, far and few, 

Are the lands where the Jum- 
blies live: 

Their heads are green, and their 
hands are blue; 

And they went to sea in a sieve. 


289 

They sailed away in a sieve, they did, 

In a sieve they sailed so fast, 

With only a beautiful pea-green veil 

Tied with a ribbon, by way of a sail, 

To a small tobacco-pipe mast. 

And every one said who saw them go, 

“Oh! won’t they be soon upset, you 
know ? 

For the sky is dark, and the voyage is 
long; 

And, happen what may, it’s extremely 
wrong 

In a sieve to sail so fast.” 

The water it soon came in, it did; 

The water it soon came in: 

So, to keep them dry, they wrapped 
their feet 

In a pinky paper all folded neat: 

And they fastened it down with a 
pin. 

And they passed the night in a croek- 
ery-jar; 

And each of them said, “How wise we 
are! 

Though the sky be dark, and the voy¬ 
age be long, 

Yet we never can think we were rash 
or wrong, 

While round in our sieve we spin.” 

And all night long they sailed away; 

And, when the sun went down, 

They whistled and warbled a moony 
song 

To the echoing sound of a coppery 
gong, 

In the shade of the mountains 
brown, 

‘ e 0 Timballoo! How happy we are 

When we live in a sieve and a crock¬ 
ery-jar! 

And all night long, in the moonlight 
pale, 

We sail away with a pea-green sail 

In the shade of the mountains 
brown. ’ ’ 


Poems for Children 


290 

They sailed to the Western Sea, they 
did — 

To a land all covered with trees: 

And they bought an owl, and a useful 
cart, 

And a pound of rice, and a cranberry- 
tart, 

And a hive of silvery bees; 

And they bought a pig, and some 
green jackdaws, 

And a lovely monkey with lollipop 
paws, 

And forty bottles of ring-bo-ree, 

And no end of Stilton cheese: 

And in twenty years they all came 
back,— 

In twenty years or more; 

And every one said, ‘ 1 How tall they’ve 
grown! 

For they’ve been to the Lakes, and the 
Torrible Zone, 

And the hills of the Chankly Bore.” 

And they drank their health, and gave 
them a feast 

Of dumplings made of beautiful yeast; 

And every one said, “If we only live, 

We, too, will go to sea in a sieve, 

To the hills of the Chankly Bore. ’ ’ 
Far and few, far and few, 

Are the lands where the Jum- 
blies live: 

Their heads are green, and their 
hands are blue; 

And they went to sea in a sieve. 

Edward Lear. 


THE POBBLE WHO HAS NO TOES. 

The Pobble who has no toes 
Had once as many as we; 

When they said, ‘ ‘ Some day you may 

1 HQP tllPlTl nil • ^ ^ 

He replied, “Fish fiddle-de-dee!” 


And his Aunt Jobiska made him drink 
Lavender water tinged with pink, 

For she said, “The World in general 
knows 

There’s nothing so good for a Pobble’s 
toes!’ ’ 

The Pobble who has no toes 

Swam across the Bristol Channel; 
But before he set out he wrapped his 
nose 

In a piece of scarlet flannel. 

For his Aunt Jobiska said, “No harm 
Can come to his toes if his nose is 
warm; 

And it’s perfectly known that a Pob¬ 
ble ’s toes 

Are safe,—provided he minds his 
nose. ’ ’ 

The Pobble swam fast and well, 

And when boats or ships came near 
him, 

He tinkledy-blinkledy-winkled a bell, 
So that all the world could hear him. 
And all the Sailors and Admirals 
cried, 

When they saw him nearing the fur¬ 
ther side,— 

“He has gone to fish, for his Aunt 
Jobiska’s 

Runcible Cat with crimson whiskers! ’ ’ 

But before he touched the shore,— 
The shore of the Bristol Channel,— 
A sea-green Porpoise carried away 
His wrapper of scarlet flannel. 

And when he came to observe his feet. 
Formerly garnished with toes so neat. 
His face at once became forlorn 
On perceiving that all his toes were 
gone! 

And nobody ever knew, 

From that dark day to the present, 
Whoso had taken the Pobble’s toes 
In a manner so far from pleasant 


Humorous Verse 


Whether the shrimps or crawfish gray, 

Or crafty Mermaids stole them away— 

Nobody knew; and nobody knows 

How the Pobble was robbed of his 
twice five toes! 

The Pobble who has no toes 
W as placed in a friendly Bark, 

And they rowed him back, and carried 
him up 

To his Aunt Jobiska’s Park. 

And she made him a feast, at his ear¬ 
nest wish, 

Of eggs and buttercups fried with fish; 

And she said, “It’s a fact the whole 
world knows, 

That Pobbles are happier without 
their toes.” 

Edward Lear. 

THE AUTHOR OF THE “ POBBLE.” 

How pleasant to know Mr. Lear! 
Who has written such volumes of 
stuff! 

Some think him ill-tempered and 
queer, 

But a few think him pleasant 
enough. 

His mind is concrete and fastidious, 
His nose is remarkably big; 

His visage is more or less hideous, 

His beard it resembles a wig. 

He has ears, and two eyes, and ten 
fingers, 

Leastways if you reckon two 
thumbs; 

Long ago he was one of the singers, 
But now he is one of the dumbs. 

He sits in a beautiful parlour, 

With hundreds of books on the wall; 

He drinks a great deal of Marsala, 
But never gets tipsy at all. 


291 

He has many friends, laymen and 
clerical, 

Old Foss is the name of his cat: 

His body is perfectly spherical, 

He weareth a runcible hat. 

When he walks in waterproof white, 
The children run after him so! 
Calling out, “He’s come out in his 
night¬ 
gown, that crazy old Englishman, 
oh!” 

He weeps by the side of the ocean, 

He weeps on the top of the hill; 

He purchases pancakes and lotion, 
And chocolate shrimps from the 
mill. 

He reads but he cannot speak Spanish, 
Lie cannot abide ginger-beer: 

Ere the days of his pilgrimage vanish, 
How pleasant to know Mr. Lear! 

Edward Lear. 

BELL’S DREAM. 

It was the little Isabel, 

Upon the sand she lay, 

The summer sun struck Hotly down, 
And she was tired of play; 

And down she sank into the sea, 
Though how, she could not say. 

She stood within a dreadful court, 
Beneath the rolling tide, 

There sat a sturgeon as a judge, 
Two lobsters at her side; 

She had a sort of vague idea 
That she was being tried. 

And then the jurymen came in, 
And, as the clock struck ten, 

Rose Sergeant Shark and hitched 
his gown, 

And trifled with a pen. 

“Ahem! May’t please your Lord- 
ship, 

And gentle jurymen! 


Poems for Children 


292 

“The counts against the prisoner 
Before you, are that she 
Has eaten salmon once at least, 

And soles most constantly; 
Likewise devoured one hundred 
shrimps 

At Margate with her tea. ’ ’ 

“Call witnesses!’’—An oyster rose, 
He spoke in plaintive tone: 
“Last week her mother bought 
fish,” 

(He scarce could check a moan) ; 
‘ ‘ He was a dear, dear friend of mine, 
His weight was half a stone! ’ * 

“ ‘No oysters, ma’am?’ the fishman 
said; 

‘No, not to-day!’ said she; 

‘My child is fond of salmon, but 
Oysters do not agree!’ 

The fishman wiped a salt, salt tear, 
And murmured, ‘ Certainly! ’ ” 

“Ahem! but,” interposed the judge, 
‘ ‘ How do you know, ’ ’ said he, 
“That she did really eat the fish?” 

‘ ‘ My Lord, it so must be, 

Because the oysters, I submit, 

With her did not agree! ’ ’ 

“Besides, besides,” the oyster cried, 
Half in an injured way, 

“The oysters in that Ashman’s shop 
My relatives were they: 

They heard it all, they wrote to me, 
The letter came to-day! ’ ’ 

1 ’Tis only hearsay evidence,” 

The judge remarked, and smiled; 
“But it will do in such a case, 

With such a murd’rous child. 
Call the next witness!” for he saw 
The jury getting wild. 


And then up rose a little shrimp: 

‘ ‘ I am the last, ’ ’ said he, 

“Of what was once, as you all know, 
A happy familee! 

Without a care we leapt and danced 
All in the merry sea! 

“Alack! the cruel fisherman, 

He caught them all but me, 

The pris’ner clapped her hands 
and yelled— 

I heard her—‘ Shrimps for tea! ’ 
And then went home and ate them 
all 

As fast as fast could be.” 

The foreman of the jury rose 
(All hope for Bell had fled), 
“There is no further need, my Lord, 
Of witnesses,” he said; 

‘ ‘ The verdict of us one and all 
Is, Guilty on each head! ’ ’ 

“Guilty,” his Lordship said, and 
sighed; 

‘ ‘ A verdict sad but true: 

To pass the sentence of the court 
Is all I have to do; 

It is, that as you’ve fed on us, 

Why, we must feed on you!' ’ 

She tried to speak, she could not 
speak ; 

She tried to run, but no! 

The lobsters seized and hurried her 
Off to the cells below, 

And each pulled out a carving- 
knife, 

And waved it to and fro. 

^ ^ ^ ^ 

But hark! there comes a voice she 
knows, 

And some one takes her hana; 

She finds herself at home again 
Upon the yellow sand; 

But how she got there s,afe and 
sound 

She cannot understand. 


Humorous Verse 


2 93 


And many a morning afterwards, 
Whene’er she sees the tide, 

She still retains that vague idea, 
That she is being tried, 

And seems to see the sturgeon judge 
And the lobsters at her side. 

Frederick Edward Weatherly. 


LITTLE BILLEE. 

There were three sailors of Bristol 
city 

Who took a boat and went to sea. 

But first with beef and captain’s 
biscuits 

And pickled pork they loaded she. 

There was gorging Jack and guzzling 
Jimmy, 

And the youngest he was little 
Billee, 

Now when they got so far as the 
Equator 

They’d nothing left but one split 
pea. 

Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, 

“I am extremely hungaree.” 

To gorging Jack says guzzling Jimmy, 

“We’ve nothing left, us must eat 


Says gorging Jack to guzzling Jimmy, 
“With one another, we shouldn’t 
agree! 

There’s little Bill, he’s young and 
tender, 

We’re old and tough, so let’s eat 
he.” 

“Oh! Billy, we’re going to kill and 
eat you, 

So undo the button of your chemie. ’ ’ 

When Bill received this information 
He used his pocket-handkerchie. 


“First let me say my catechism, 

Which my poor mammy taught to 
me. ’ ’ 

“Make haste, make haste,” says 
guzzling Jimmy 

While Jack pulled out his snicker¬ 
snee. 

So Billy went up to the main-top 
gallant mast, 

And down he fell on his bended 
knee. 

He scarce had come to the twelfth 
commandment 

When up he jumps, “There’s land 
I see. 

“Jerusalem and Madagascar, 

And North and South Amerikee: 

There’s the British flag a-riding at 
anchor, 

With Admiral Napier, k. c. b.” 

So when they got aboard of the 
Admiral’s 

He hanged fat Jack and flogged 
Jimmee; 

But as for little Bill, he made him 

The Captain of a Seventy-Three. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 


THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN. 

Hamelin Town’s in Brunswick 
By famous Hanover city; 

The river Weser, deep and wide, 
Washes its wall on the southern 
side; 

A pleasanter spot you never spied; 

But, when begins my ditty, 

Almost five hundred years ago, 

To see the townsfolk suffer so 
From vermin was a pity. 

Rats! 


Poems for Children 


294 

They fought the (logs, and killed the 
cats, 

And bit the babies in the cradles, 
And ate the cheeses out of the vats, 
And licked the soup from the cook’s 
own ladles, 

Split open the kegs of salted sprats, 
Made nests inside men ’s Sunday hats, 
And even spoiled the women’s chats, 
By drowning their speaking 
With shrieking and squeaking 
I11 fifty different sharps and flats. 


At last the people in a body 

To the Town Hall came flocking: 

44 ’Tis clear,” cried they, 4 ‘our 
Mayor’s a noddy; 

And as for our Corporation— 
shocking 

To think that we buy gowns lined 
with ermine 

For dolts that can’t or won’t 
determine 

What’s best to rid us of our vermin! 

You hope, because you’re old and 
obese, 

To find in the furry civic robe ease? 

Rouse up, sirs! Give your brain a 
racking 

To find the remedy we’re lacking, 

Or, sure as fate, we’ll send you 
packing!” 

At this the Mayor and Corporation 
Quaked with a mighty consternation. 


An hour they sat in council, 

At length the Mayor broke silence: 
“For a guilder I’d my ermine gown 
sell; 

I wish I were a mile hence! 

It’s easy to bid one rack one’s 
brain— 

I’in sure my poor head aches again 
I’ve scratched it so, and all in vain, 
Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap! ’ ’ 


Just as he said this, what should hap 
At the chamber door but a gentle tap ? 

“Bless us,” cried the Mayor, 
“what’s that?” 

(With the Corporation as he sat, 
Looking little though wondrous fat; 
Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister, 
Than a too-long-opened 03^ster, 

Save when at noon his paunch grew 
mutinous 

For a plate of turtle green and 
glutinous), 

“Only a scraping of shoes on the 
mat ? 

Anything like the sound of a rat 

Makes my heart go pit-a-pat! ’ ’ 

“Come in!”—the Mayor cried, 
looking bigger: 

And in did come the strangest 
figure. 

His queer long coat from heel to 
head 

Was half of yellow and half of red; 

And he himself was tall and thin, 

With sharp blue eyes, each like a 
pin, 

And light loose hair, yet swarthy 
skin, 

No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, 

But lips where smiles went out and 
in— 

There was no guessing his kith and 
kin! 

And nobody could enough admire 

The tall man and his quaint attire. 

Quoth one: “ It’s as my great grand- 
sire, 

Starting up at the Trump of Doom’s 
tone, 

Had walked this way from his 
painted tombstone. ’ ’ 

He advanced to the council-table: 
And , 4 4 Please, your honours, ’ ’ said he, 
“I’m able, 


Humorous Verse 


By means of a secret charm, to 
draw 

All creatures living beneath the sun, 
That creep, or swim, or fly, or run, 
After me so as you never saw! 

And I chiefly use my charm 
On creatures that do people harm, 
The mole, and toad, and newt, and 
viper; 

And people call me the Pied Piper.” 
(And here they noticed round his neck 
A scarf of red and yellow stripe, 

To match with his coat of the selfsame 
cheque; 

And at the scarf’s end hung a pipe; 
And his fingers, they noticed, were 
ever straying 

As if impatient to be playing 
Upon this pipe, as low it dangled 
Over his vesture so old-fangled.) 
“Yet,” said he, “poor piper as I 
am, 

In Tartary I freed the Cham, 

Last June, from his huge swarms of 
gnats; 

I eased in Asia the Nizam 
Of a monstrous brood of vampire 
bats: 

And, as for what your brain be¬ 
wilders, 

If I can rid your town of rats 
Will you give me a thousand 
guilders?” 

“One? fifty thousand!”—was the 
exclamation 

Of the astonished Mayor and Corpora¬ 
tion. 

Into the street the Piper stept, 
Smiling first a little smile, 

As if he knew what magic slept 
In his quiet pipe the while; 

Then, like a musical adept, 

To blow the pipe his lips he 
wrinkled, 

And green and blue his sharp eyes 
twinkled 


295 

Like a candle-flame where salt is 
sprinkled; 

And ere three shrill notes the pipe 
uttered, 

You heard as if an army muttered; 
And the muttering grew to a grum¬ 
bling ; 

And the grumbling grew to a mighty 
rumbling; 

And out of the house the rats came 
tumbling. 

Great rats, small rats, lean rats, 
brawny rats, 

Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, 
tawny rats, 

Grave old plodders, gay young 
friskers, 

Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, 
Cocking tails and pricking whiskers, 
Families by tens and dozens, 
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives— 
Followed the Piper for their lives. 
From street to street he piped ad¬ 
vancing, 

And step by step they followed 
dancing, 

Ur til they came to the river Weser 
Wherein all plunged and perished 
—Save one, who, stout as Julius 
Cassar, 

Swam across and lived to carry 
(As he the manuscript he cherished) 
To Rat-land home his commentary, 
Which was, “At the first shrill notes 
of the pipe, 

I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, 
And putting apples, wondrous ripe, 
Into a cider-press’s gripe; 

And a moving away of pickle-tub- 
boards, 

And a leaving ajar of conserve cup¬ 
boards, 

And a drawing the corks of train- 
oil-flasks, 

And a breaking the hoops of butter 
casks; 

And it seemed as if a voice 


Poems for Children 


296 

(Sweeter far than by harp or by 
psaltery 

Is breathed) called out, Oh, rats! 
rejoice! 

The world is grown to one vast dry¬ 
saltery ! 

To munch on, crunch on, take your 
nuncheon, 

Breakfast, supper, dinner, lunch¬ 
eon ! 

And just as a bulky sugar puncheon, 

All ready staved, like a great sun 
shone 

Glorious scarce an inch before me, 

Just as methought it said, come, 
bore me! 

—I found the Weser rolling o’er 
me. ’ ’ 


You should have heard the Hamelin 
people 

Ringing the bells till they rocked the 
steeple. 

“Go,” cried the Mayor, “and get 
long poles! 

Poke out the nests and block up 
the holes! 

Consult with carpenters and build¬ 
ers, 

And leave in our town not even a 
trace 

Of the rats!”—when suddenly up 
the face 

Of the Piper perked in the market¬ 
place, 

With a, “First, if you please, my 
thousand guilders!” 


A thousand guilders! The Mayor 
looked blue; 

So did the Corporation too. 

For council dinners made rare havoc 
With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, 
Hock; 


And half the money would replenish 

Their cellar’s biggest butt with Rhen¬ 
ish. 

To pay this sum to a wandering fel¬ 
low 

With a gipsy coat of red and yellow! 

“Beside,” quoth the Mayor, with a 
knowing wink, 

“Our business was done at the 
river’s brink; 

We saw with our eyes the vermin 
sink, 

And what’s dead can’t come to life, 
I think. 

So, friend, we’re not the folks to 
shrink 

From the duty of giving you some¬ 
thing to drink, 

And a matter of money to put in 
your poke, 

But, as for the guilders, what we 
spoke 

Of them, as you very well know, was 
in joke. 

Besides, our losses have made us 
thrifty; 

A thousand guilders! Come, take 

fifty! ’ ’ 


The piper’s face fell, and he cried, 
“No trifling! I can’t wait, beside! 
I’ve promised to visit by dinner¬ 
time 

Bagdad, and accepted the prime 
Of the Head Cook’s pottage, all he’s 
rich in, 

For having left, in the Caliph’s 
kitchen, 

Of a nest of scorpions no survivor— 
With him I proved no bargain- 
driver, 

With you, don’t think I’ll bate a 
stiver! 

And folks who put me in a passion 
May find me pipe to another fash- 

• * y 

ion. 


Humorous Verse 


“How?” cried the Mayor, “d’ye 
think I ’ll brook 

Being worse treated than a Cook ? 

Insulted by a lazy ribald 

With idle pipe and vesture piebald ? 

You threaten us, fellow! Do your 
worst, 

Blow your pipe there till you 
burst! ’ ’ 


Once more he stept into the street; 

And to his lips again 
Laid his long pipe of smooth straight 
cane; 

And ere he blew three notes (such 
sweet 

Soft notes as yet musicians cunning 

Never gave the enraptured air), 
There was a rustling, that seemed like 
a bustling 

Of merry crowds justling, at pitching 
and hustling, 

Small feet were pattering, wooden 
shoes clattering, 

Little hands clapping, and little 
tongues chattering, 

And, like fowls in a farmyard when 
barley is scattering, 

Out came the children running. 

All the little boys and girls, 

With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, 
And sparkling eyes and teeth like 
pearls, 

Tripping and skipping, ran merrily 
after 

The wonderful music with shouting 
and laughter. 

The Mayor was dumb, and the Coun¬ 
cil stood 

As if they were changed into blocks of 
wood, 

Unable to move a step, or cry 
To the children merrily skipping by- - 
And **ould only follow with the eye 
That joyous crowd at the Piper’s 
back. 


2 9 7 

But how the Mayor was on the rack, 
And the wretched Council’s bosoms 
beat, 

As the piper turned from the High 
Street 

To where the Weser rolled its waters 
Right in the way of their sons and 
daughters! 

However, he turned from South to 
West, 

And to Koppelberg Hill his steps ad¬ 
dressed, 

And after him the children pressed; 
Great was the joy in every breast. 

“He never can cross that mighty 
top! 

He’s forced to let the piping drop 

And we shall see our children stop! ” 
When lo! as they reached the moun¬ 
tain’s side, 

A wondrous portal opened wide, 

As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; 
And the Piper advanced and the chil¬ 
dren followed, 

And when all were in to the very last, 
The door in the mountain-side shut 
fast. 

Did I say all ? No! one was lame, 
And could not dance the whole of the 
way; 

And in after years, if you would 
blame 

His sadness, he was used to say: 

“It’s dull in our town since my 
playmates left; 

I can’t forget that I’m bereft 

Of all the pleasant sights they see, 

Which the Piper also promised me ; 

For he led us, he said, to a joyous 
land, 

Joining the town and just at hand, 
Where waters gushed and fruit trees 
grew, 

And flowers put forth a fairer hue, 
And everything was strange and new, 
The sparrows were brighter than pear 
cocks here, 


298 Poems for Children 


And their dogs outran our fallow deer, 
And honey-bees had lost their stings; 
And horses were born with eagle’s 
wings; 

And just as I became assured 
My lame foot would be speedily cured, 
The music stopped, and I stood still, 
And found myself outside the Hill, 
Left alone against my will, 

To go now limping as before, 

And never hear of that country 
more! ’ ’ 


Alas, alas for Hamelin! 

There came into many a burgher’s 
pate 

A text which says, that Heaven’s 
Gate 

Opes to the Rich at as easy rate 
As the needle’s eye takes a camel in! 


The Mayor sent East, West, North 
and South, 

To offer the Piper by word of mouth, 
Wherever it was men’s lot to find 
him, 

Silver and gold to his heart’s content, 

If he’d only return the way he went, 
And bring the children all behind 
him. 

But when they saw ’twas a lost en¬ 
deavour, 

And Piper and dancers were gone for¬ 
ever 

They made a decree that lawyers 
never 

Should think their records dated 
duly 

If, after the day of the month and 
year, 

These words did not as well appear, 

‘ 1 And so long after what happened 
here 

On the twenty-second of July, 


Thirteen hundred and seventy-six: ’ ’ 
And the better in memory to fix 
The place of the Children’s last re¬ 
treat, 

They called it, the Pied Piper’s 
street— 

Where any one playing on pipe or 
tabor, 

Was sure for the future to lose his 
labour. 

Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern 
To shock with mirth a street so 
solemn; 

But opposite the place of the cavern 
They wrote the story on a column, 
And on the great church window 
painted 

The same, to make the world ac¬ 
quainted 

How their children were stolen away; 

And there it stands to this very day. 

And I must not omit to say 

That in Transylvania there’s a tribe 

Of alien people that ascribe 

The outlandish ways and dress, 

On which their neighbours lay such 
•stress, 

To their fathers and mothers having 
risen 

Out of some subterraneous prison, 

Into which they were trepanned 
Long time ago in a mighty band 
Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick 
land, 

But how or why they don’t under¬ 
stand. 


So, Willy, let you and me be wipers 

Of scores out with all men—especially 
pipers; 

And, whether they pipe us free from 
rats or from mice, 

If we’ve promised them aught, let us 
keep our promise. 

Robert Browning. 


Humorous Verse 


THE LOBSTER AND THE MAID. 

He was a gentle lobster 

(The boats had just come in), 

He did not love the fishermen, 

He could not stand their din; 
And so he quietly stole off, 

As if it were no sin. 

She was a little maiden, 

He met her on the sand, 

“And how d’you do 1 ?” the lobster 
said, 

Why don’t you give your 
hand ? ’ ’ 

For why she edged away from him 
He could not understand. 

“Excuse me, sir,” the maiden said: 
“Excuse me, if you please,” 

And put her hands behind her back, 
And doubled up her knees; 

“I always thought that lobsters were 
A little apt to squeeze.” 

“Your ignorance,” the lobster said, 
“Is natural, I fear; 

Such scandal is a shame, ” he sobbed, 
“It is not true, my dear,’’ 

And with his pocket-handkerchief 
He wiped away a tear. 

So out she put her little hand, 

As though she feared him not, 
When some one grabbed him sud¬ 
denly 

And put him in a pot, 

With water which, I think he found 
Uncomfortably hot. 

It may have been the water made 
The blood flow to his head, 

It may have been that dreadful fib 
Lay on his soul like lead; 

This much is true—he went in grey, 
And came out very red. 

Frederick Edward Weatherly. 


2 99 

THE JACKDAW OF RHEIMS. 

AN INGOLDSBY LEGEND. 

The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal’s 
chair! 

Bishop and abbot and prior were 
there; 

Many a monk, and many a friar, 

Many a knight, and many a squire, 

With a great many more of lesser 
degree,— 

In sooth a goodly company; 

And they served the Lord Primate on 
bended knee. 

Never, I ween, was a prouder seen, 

Head of in books, or dreamt of in 
dreams, 

Than the Cardinal Lord Archbishop 
of Rheims! 

In and out through the motley 
rout, 

That little Jackdaw kept hopping 
about; 

Here and there like a dog in a 
fair, 

Over comfits and cakes, and dishes 
and plates. 

Cowl and cope, and rochet and pall, 

Mitre and crosier! he hopp’d upon all! 

With saucy air, he perch’d on the 
chair 

Where, in state, the great Lord Car¬ 
dinal sat 

In the great Lord Cardinal’s great 
red hat; 

And he peer’d in the face of his 
Lordship’s Grace, 

With a satisfied look, as if he would 
say, 

“We two are the greatest folks here 
to-day!” 

The feast was over, the board was 
clear’d, 

The flawns and the custards had all 
disappear’d, 


3 °° 


Poems for Children 


And six little singing-boys—dear lit¬ 
tle souls! 

In nice clean faces, and nice white 
stoles, 

Came, in order due, two by two, 

Marching that grand refectory 
through! 

A nice little boy held a golden ewer, 

Emboss’d and fill’d with water, as 
pure 

As any that flows between Rheims and 
Namur, 

Which a nice little boy stood ready 
to catch 

In a fine golden hand-basin made to 
match. 

Two nice little boys, rather more 
grown, 

Carried lavender-water and eau de 
Cologne; 

And a nice little boy had a nice cake 
of soap, 

Worthy of washing the hands of the 
Pope. 

One little boy more a napkin bore, 

Of the best white diaper, fringed with 
pink, 

And a Cardinal’s Hat mark’d in ‘ 1 per¬ 
manent ink.” 


The Great Lord Cardinal turns at the 
sight 

Of these nice little boys dress’d all in 
white: 

From his finger he draws his 
costly turquoise; 

And, not thinking at all about little 
J ackdaws, 

Deposits it straight by the side of 
his plate, 

While the nice little boys on his 
Eminence wait; 

Till, when nobody’s dreaming of any 
such thing, 

That little Jackdaw hops off with the 
ring! 


There’s a cry and a shout, and no 
end of a rout, 

And nobody seems to know what 
they’re about, 

But the monks have their pockets all 
turn’d inside out; 

The friars are kneeling, and hunt¬ 
ing, and feeling 

The carpet, the floor, and the walls, 
and the ceiling, 

The Cardinal drew off each plum- 
colour’d shoe, 

And left his red stockings exposed to 
the view; 

He peeps, and he feels in the toes 
and the heels; 

They turn up the dishes—they turn 
up the plates— 

They take up the poker and poke out 
the grates, 

—They turn up the rugs, they 
examine the mugs: 

But no!—no such thing:—They 
can’t find the ring ! 

And the Abbot declared that, “when 
nobody twigg’d it, 

Some rascal or other had popp’d in, 
and prigg’d it!” 


The Cardinal rose with a dignified 
look, 

He call’d for his candle, his bell, and 
his book! 

In holy anger, and pious grief, 

He solemnly cursed that rascally 
thief! 

He cursed him at board, he cursed 
him in bed; 

From the sole of his foot, to the 
crown of his head; 

He cursed him in sleeping, that 
every night 

He should dream of evil, and wake 
in a fright; 

He cursed him in eating, he cursed 
him in drinking, 


Humorous Verse 


They dined on mince and slices of 
quince, 

Which they ate with a runcible 
spoon; 

And hand in hand, on the edge of the 
sand, 

They danced by the light of the 
moon, 

The moon, 

The moon, 

They danced by the light of the 
moon. 

Edward Lear. 

THE PRIEST AND THE 
MULBERRY-TREE. 

Did you hear of the curate who 
mounted his mare, 

And merrily trotted along to the fair? 

Of creature more tractable none ever 
heard; 

In the height of her speed she would 
stop at a word; 

But again with a word, when the 
curate said “Hey!" 

She put forth her mettle and galloped 
away. 

As near to the gates of the city he 
rode, 

While the sun of September all bril¬ 
liantly glowed, 

The good priest discovered, with eyes 
of desire, 

A mulberry-tree in a hedge of wild 
brier; 

On boughs long and lofty, in many a 
green shoot, 

Hung large, black, and glossy, the 
beautiful fruit. 

The curate was hungry and thirsty to 
boot; 

He shrunk from the thorns, though 
he longed for the fruit; 


3°3 

With a word he arrested his courser's 
keen speed, 

And he stood up erect on the back of 
his steed; 

On the saddle he stood while the 
creature stood still, 

And he gather'd the fruit till he took 
his good fill. 

“Sure never," he thought, “was a 
creature so rare, 

So docile, so true, as my excellent 
mare; 

Lo, here now I stand," and he gazed 
all around, 

“As safe and as steady as if on the 
ground; 

Yet how had it been, if some traveller 
this way, 

Had, dreaming no mischief, but 
chanced to cry ‘Hey’?" 

He stood with his head in the mul¬ 
berry-tree, 

And he spoke out aloud in his fond 
reverie. 

At the sound of the word the good 
mare made a push, 

And down went the priest in the wild- 
brier bush, 

He remember’d too late, on his thorny 
green bed, 

Much that well may be thought 

CANNOT WISELY BE SAID. 

Thomas Love Peacock. 

THE WALRUS AND THE 
CARPENTER. 

From “ Through the Looking-Glass.” 

The sun was shining on the sea, 
Shining with all his might: 

He did his very best to make 
The billows smooth and bright— 

And this was odd, because it was 
The middle of the night. 


3°4 Poems for Children 


r rhe moon was shining sulkily, 
Because she thought the sun 

Had got no business to be there 
After the day was done— 

“It’s very rude of him,” she said, 

‘ ‘ To come and spoil the fun! ’ ’ 

The sea was wet as wet could be, 
The sands were dry as dry. 

You could not see a cloud, because 
No cloud was in the sky: 

No birds were flying overhead— 
There were no birds to fly. 

The Walrus and the Carpenter 
Were walking close at hand: 

They wept like anything to see 
Such quantities of sand: 

“If this were only cleared away,” 
They said, “it would be grand!” 

4 ‘ If seven maids with seven mops 
Swept it for half a year, 

Do you suppose,” the Walrus said, 
“That they could get it clear?” 

“I doubt it,” said the Carpenter, 
And shed a bitter tear. 

“0 Oysters come and walk with us!” 
The Walrus did beseech. 

“A pleasant talk, a pleasant walk, 
Along the briny beach: 

We cannot do with more than four, 
To give a hand to each.” 

The eldest Oyster looked at him, 
But never a word he said; 

The eldest Oyster winked his eye, 
And shook his heavy head— 

Meaning to say he did not choose 
To leave the oyster-bed. 

But four young Oysters hurried up, 
All eager for the treat: 

Their coats were brushed, their 
faces washed, 


Their shoes were clean and neat— 
And this was odd, because, you 
know, 

They hadn’t any feet. 

Four other Oysters followed them, 
And yet another four; 

And thick and fast they came at 
last, 

And more, and more, and more— 
All hopping through the frothy 
waves, 

And scrambling to the shore. 

The Walrus and the Carpenter 
Walked on a mile or so, 

And then they rested on a rock 
Conveniently low: 

And all the little Oysters stood 
And waited in a row. 

“The time has come,” the Walrus 
said, 

4 ‘ To talk of many things: 

Of shoes—and ships—and sealing- 
wax— 

Of cabbages—and kings— 

And why the sea is boiling hot— 
And whether pigs have wings.” 

“But wait a bit,” the Oysters cried, 
“Before we have our chat; 

For some of us are out of breath, 
And all of us are fat!” 

“No hurry!” said the Carpenter. 
They thanked him much for that. 

“A loaf of bread,” the Walrus said, 

4 ‘ Is what we chiefly need: 

Pepper and vinegar besides 
Are very good indeed— 

Now, if you’re ready, Oysters dear, 
We can begin to feed.” 


Humorous Verse 


‘ ‘ But not on us! ’’ the Oysters cried, 
Turning a little blue. 

“After such kindness, that would be 
A dismal thing to do! ’ ’ 

“The night is fine,” the Walrus said. 
“Do you admire the view? 

“It was so kind of you to come! 

And you are veiy nice! ’’ 

The Carpenter said nothing but 
“Cut us another slice. 

I wish you were not quite so deaf-— 
I’ve had to ask you twice! ’ ’ 

“It seems a shame,” the Walrus said, 
“To play them such a trick, 

After we’ve brought them out so 
far, 

And made them trot so quick! ’’ 
The Carpenter said nothing but 
“The butter’s spread too thick!” 

“I weep for you,” the Walrus said: 
“I deeply sympathize.” 

With sobs and tears he sorted out 
Those of the largest size, 

Holding his pocket-handkerchief 
Before his streaming eyes. 

“0 Oysters,” said the Carpenter, 
“You’ve had a pleasant run! 
Shall we be trotting home again ? ’ ’ 
But answer came there none— 
And this was scarcely odd, because 
They’d eaten every one. 

Lewis Carroll . 


JABBERWOCKY. 

From “ Through the Looking-Glass.” 

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves 
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; 
All mimsy were the borogoves, 

And the mome raths outgrabe. 


3°5 

‘ * Beware the Jabberwock, my son! 
The jaws that bite, the claws that 
catch! 

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun 
The frumious Bandersnatch! ’ ’ 

He took his vorpal sword in hand: 
Long time the manxome foe he 
sought.— 

So rested he by the Tumtum tree, 
And stood awhile in thought. 

And as in uffish thought he stood, 
The Jabberwock, with eyes of 
flame, 

Came whiffling through the tulgey 
wood, 

And burbled as it came! 

One, two! One, two! And through 
and through 

The vorpal blade went snicker- 
snack ! 

He left it dead, and with its head 
He went galumphing back. 

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock? 
Come to my arms, my beamish 
boy! 

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay! ’ ’ 
He chortled in his joy. 

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves 
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe; 
All mimsy were the borogoves, 

And the mome raths outgrabe. 

Lewis Carroll. 

THE GARDENER’S SONG. 

From “ Sylvie and Bruno.” 

He thought he saw an Elephant, 
That practised on a fife; 

He looked again, and found it was 
A letter from his wife. 

“At length I realize,” he said, 
“The bitterness of life!” 


Poems for Children 


3°6 

He thought he saw a Buffalo 
Upon the chimney-piece: 

He looked again, and found it was 
His Sister’s Husband’s Niece. 
“Unless you leave this house,” he 
said, 

“I’ll send for the Police!” 

He thought he saw a Rattlesnake 
That questioned him in Greek : 
He looked again, and found it was 
The Middle of Next Week. 

“The one thing I regret,” he said, 
i 1 Is that it cannot speak! ’ ’ 

He thought he saw a Banker’s Clerk 
Descending from the ’bus: 

He looked again, and found it was 
A Hippopotamus. 

“If this should stay to dine, ” he said, 
“There won’t be much for us!” 


He thought he saw a Kangaroo 
That worked a coffee-mill: 

He looked again, and found it was 
A Vegetable-Pill. 

“Were I to swallow this,” he said, 
“I should be very ill!” 

He thought he saw a Coach-and- 
Four 

That stood beside his bed: 

He looked again, and found it was 
A Bear without a Head. 

“Poor thing,” he said, “poor silly 
thing! 

It’s waiting to be fed! ’ ’ 

He thought he saw an Albatross 
That fluttered round the lamp: 

He looked again, and found it was 
A Penny-Postage-Stamp. 

“You’d best be getting home,” he 
said: 

“The nights are very damp!” 


He thought he saw a Garden Door 
That opened with a key: 

He looked again, and found it was 
A Double-Rule-of-Three. 

“And all its mystery,” he said, 

‘ ‘ Is clear as day to me! ’ ’ 

Lewis Carroll. 


THE DIVERTING HISTORY OF 
JOHN GILPIN. 

Showing how he went farther than 
he intended, and came safe home 
again. 

John Gilpin was a citizen 
Of credit and renown, 

A train-band captain eke was he, 

Of famous London town. 

John Gilpin’s spouse said to her dear, 
‘ 1 Though wedded we have been 

These twice ten tedious years, yet we 
No holiday have seen. 

“To-morrow is our wedding-day, 

And we will then repair 

Unto the Bell at Edmonton, 

All in a chaise and pair. 

‘ ‘ My sister, and my sister’s child, 
Myself and children three 

Will fill the chaise; so you must ride 
On horseback after we.” 

He soon replied, “I do admire 
Of womankind but one, 

And you are she, my dearest dear, 
Therefore it shall be done. 

“I am a linen-draper bold, 

As all the world doth know, 

And my good friend the calender, 
Will lend his horse to go.” 



Humorous Verse 


Quoth Mrs. Gilpin, “That’s well said; 

And for that wine is dear, 

We will be furnished with our own, 
Which is both bright and clear.” 

John Gilpin kiss’d his loving wife 
O’er joyed was he to find, 

That, though on pleasure she was bent, 
She had a frugal mind. 

The morning came, the chaise was 
brought 

But yet was not allow’d 
To drive up to the door, lest all 
Should say that she was proud. 

So three doors off the chaise was 
stay’d, 

Where they did all get in; 

Six precious souls, and all agog 
To dash through thick and thin. 

Smack went the whip, round went the 
wheels, 

Were never folk so glad; 

The stones did rattle underneath, 

As if Cheapside were mad. 

John Gilpin at his horse’s side 
Seized fast the flowing mane, 

And up he got, in haste to ride, 

But soon came down again; 

For saddle-tree scarce reach’d had he, 
His journey to begin, 

When turning round his head he saw 
Three customers come in. 

So down he came; for loss of time, 
Although it grieved him sore, 

Yet loss of pence, full well he knew, 
Would trouble him much more. 

’Twas long before the customers, 
Were suited to their mind, 

When Betty screaming came down 
stairs 

“The wine is left behind!” 


3°7 

“Good lack!” quoth he; “yet bring 
it me, 

My leathern belt likewise, 

In which I bear my trusty sword, 
When I do exercise.” 

Now, Mistress Gilpin (careful soul!) 

Had two stone bottles found, 

To hold the liquor that she loved, 

And keep it safe and sound. 

Each bottle had a curling ear, 
Through which the belt he drew, 
And hung a bottle on each side 
To make his balance true. 

Then over all, that he might be 
Equipp’d from top to toe, 

His long red cloak, well brush’d and 
neat, 

He manfully did throw. 

Now see him mounted once again 
Upon his nimble steed, 

Full lowly pacing o’er the stones, 
With caution and good heed. 

But finding soon a smoother road 
Beneath his well-shod feet, 

The snorting beast began to trot, 
Which gall’d him in his seat. 

So, “Fair and softly,” John he cried, 
But John he cried in vain; 

That trot became a gallop soon, 

In spite of curb and rein. 

So stooping down, as needs he must, 
Who cannot sit upright, 

He grasp’d the mane with both his 
hands, 

And eke with all his might. 

His horse, who never in that sort 
Had handled been before, 

What thing upon his back had got 
Did wonder more and more. 


Poems for Children 


308 

Away went Gilpin, neck or naught; 

Away went hat and wig; 

He little dreamt, when he set out, 

Of running such a rig. 

The wind did blow, the cloak did fly 
Like streamer long and gay, 

Till, loop and button, failing both, 
At last it flew away. 

Then might all people well discern 
The bottles he had slung; 

A bottle swinging at each side, 

As hath been said or sung. 

The dogs did bark, the children 
scream’d, 

Up flew the windows all; 

And every sou cried out, “Well 
done! ’ ’ 

As loud as he could bawl. 

Away went Gilpin—who but he 
His fame soon spread around; 

He carries weight! he rides a race 
’Tis for a thousand pound! 

And still as fast as he drew near, 
’Twas wonderful to view, 

How in a trice the turnpike men 
Their gates wide open threw. 

And now as he went bowing down 
His reeking head full low, 

The bottles twain behind his back 
Were shatter’d at a blow. 

Down ran the wine into the road, 
Most piteous to be seen, 

Which made his horse’s flanks to 
smoke, 

As they had basted been. 

But still he seem’d to carry weight 
With leathern girdle braced; 

For all might see the bottle-necks, 
Still dangling at his waist. 


Thus all through merry Islington 
Those gambols he did play, 

Until he came unto the Wash 
Of Edmonton so gay; 

And there he threw the wash about 
On both sides of the way, 

Just like unto a trundling mop, 

Or a wild goose at play. 

At Edmonton his loving wife 
From the balcony espied 
Her tender husband, wondering much 
To see how he did ride. 

“Stop, stop, John Gilpin! here’s the 
house!’ ’ 

They all aloud did cry; 

* ‘ The dinner waits, and we are tired ’ ’; 
Said Gilpin, “So am I!” 

But yet his horse was not a whit 
Inclined to tarry there; 

For why? his owner had a house 
Full ten miles off, at Ware. 

So, like an arrow swift he flew, 

Shot by an archer strong; 

So did he fly—which brings me to 
The middle of my song. 

Away went Gilpin, out of breath, 

And sore against his will, 

Till at his friend the calender’s, 

His horse at last stood still. 

The calender, amazed to see 
His neighbour in such trim, 

Laid down his pipe, flew to the gate, 
And thus accosted him: 

“What news? what news? your tid¬ 
ings tell! 

Tell me you must and shall— 

Say why bareheaded you are come, 

Or why you come at all ? ” 


Humorous Verse 


Now Gilpin had a pleasant wit, 

And loved a timely joke; 

And thus unto the calender 
In merry guise he spoke: 

“I came because your horse would 
come, 

And, if I well forbode, 

My hat and wig will soon be here; 
They are upon the road. ’ ’ 

m 

The calender, right glad to find 
His friend in merry pin, 

Return’d him not a single word, 

But to the house went in. 

When straight he came with hat and 
wig; 

A Avig that flowed behind; 

A hat not much the worse for wear, 
Each comely in its kind. 

He held them up, and in his turn 
Thus showed his ready wit: 

“My head is twice as big as yours, 
They therefore needs must fit. 

4 ‘ But let me scrape the dirt away 
That hangs upon your face; 

And stop and eat, for well you may 
Be in a hungry case.” 

Said John, “It is my wedding-day, 
And all the world would stare, 

If wife should dine at Edmonton, 

And I should dine at Ware.” 

So, turning to his horse, he said: 

* 1 1 am in haste to dine; 

’Twas for your pleasure you came 
here, 

You shall go back for mine.” 


3°9 

Ah! luckless speech, and bootless 
boast 

For which he paid full dear; 

For, while he spake, a braying ass 
Did ring most loud and clear; 

Whereat his horse did snort, as he 
Had heard a lion roar, 

And gallop’d off with all his might, 

As he had done before. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 
Went Gilpin’s hat and wig! 

He lost them sooner than the first; 
For why?—they were too big. 

Now, Mistress Gilpin, when she saw 
Her husband posting down 
Into the country far away, 

She pull’d out half a crown; 

And thus unto the youth she said, 
That drove them to the Bell, 

‘ ‘ This shall be yours, when you bring 
back, 

My husband safe and well.” 

The youth did ride, and soon did meet 
John coming back amain; 

Whom in a trice he tried to stop 
By catching at his rein; 

But not performing what he meant, 
And gladly would have done, 

The frighted steed he frighted more, 
And made him faster run. 

Away went Gilpin, and away 
Went postboy at his heels; 

The postboy’s horse right glad to miss 
The lumbering of the wheels. 

Six gentlemen upon the road, 

Thus seeing Gilpin fly, 

With postboy scampering in the rear, 
They raised the hue and cry: 


Poems for Children 


3 '° 

“Stop thief! stop thief! a highway¬ 
man ! ’ ’ 

Not one of them was mute; 

And all and each that pass'd that way 
Did join in the pursuit. 

And now the turnpike gates again 
Flew open in short space; 

The toll-men thinking as before 
That Gilpin ran a race. 

And so he did, and won it too, 

For he got first to town; 

Nor stopp ’d till where he had got up 
He did again get down. 

Now let us sing, long live the King! 

And Gilpin, long live he! 

And, when he next doth ride abroad, 
May I be there to see! 

William Cowper. 


THE COURTSHIP OF THE 
YONGHY-BONGHY-BO. 

On the Coast of Coromandel 
Where the early pumpkins blow, 
In the middle of the woods 
Lived the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. 

Two old chairs, and half a candle, 

One old jug without a handle,— 

These were all his worldly goods: 
In the middle of the woods, 

These were all the worldly goods, 
Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, 

Of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. 

Once, among the Bong-trees walking 
Where the early pumpkins blow, 
To a little heap of stones 
Came the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. 


There he heard a Lady talking 
To some milk-white Hens of Dork- 
ing,— 

“ ’Tis the Lady Jingly Jones! 

On that little heap of stones 
Sits the Lady Jingly Jones!” 
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. 

“Lady Jingly! Lady Jingly! 

Sitting where the pumpkins blow, 
Will you come and be my wife?” 
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. 

“I am tired of living singly,— 

On this coast so wild and shingly,— 
I’m a-weary of my life; 

If you ’ll come and be my wife, 
Quite serene would be my life!” 
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. 

“On this Coast of Coromandel, 
Shrimps and water-cresses grow, 
Prawns are plentiful and cheap,” 
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. 

“You shall have my chairs and candle 
And my jug without a handle. 

Gaze upon the rolling deep 
(Fish is plentiful and cheap); 
As the sea, my love is deep!” 
Said the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. 

Lady Jingly answered sadly, 

And her tears began to flow,— 
“Your proposal comes too late, 
Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! 

I would be your wife most gladly!” 
(Here she twirled her fingers madly,) 
“But in England I’ve a mate! 
Yes! you’ve asked me far too late, 
For in England I’ve a mate, 

Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo. 

“Mr. Jones—(his name is Handel,— 
Handel Jones, Esquire, & Co.) 

Dorking fowls delights to send, 
Mr. Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo! 

Keep, oh! keep your chairs and candle, 


H umorous Verse 


And calls on him frequent and inti- 
muttly, 

Might drop a few facts that would in¬ 
terest you 
Clean! 

Through!— 

If you wanted ’em to— 

Some actual facts that might interest 
you! 

O! The Man in the Moon has a crick 
in his back; 

Whee! 

Whimm! 

Ain’t you sorry for him ? 

And a mole on his nose that is purple 
and black; 

And his eyes are so weak that they 
water and run 

If he dares to dream even he looks at 
the sun,— 

So he jes’ dreams of stars, as the doc¬ 
tors advise— 

My! 

Eyes! 

But isn’t he wise— 

To jes’ dream of stars, as the doctors 
advise % 

And The Man in the Moon has a boil 
on his ear,— 

Whee! 

Wiling! 

What a singular thing! 

I know! but these facts are authentic, 
mv dear,— 

There’s a boil on his ear; and a corn 
on his chin,— 

He calls it a dimple—but dimples 
stick in— 

Yet it might be a dimple turned over, 
you know! 

Whang! 

Ho! 

Why, certainly so!— 

It might be a dimple turned over, 
you know! 


3 ] 3 

And The Man in the Moon has a 
rheumatic knee,— 

Gee! 

Whizz! 

What a pity that is! 

And his toes have worked round where 
his heels ought to be.— 

So whenever he wants to go North he 
goes South , 

And comes back with porridge-crumbs 
all round his mouth, 

And he brushes them off with a Jap¬ 
anese fan, 

Whing! 

Whann! 

What a marvelous man! 

What a very remarkably marvelous 
man! 

And The Man in the Moon, sighed 
The Raggedy Man, 

Gits! 

So! 

Sullonesome, you know,— 

Up there by hisse’f sence creation be¬ 
gan !— 

That when I call on him and then 
come away, 

He grabs me and holds me and begs 
me to stay,— 

Till — Well! if it wasn’t fer Jimmy - 
cum-jim, 

Dadd! 

Limb! 

I’d go pardners with him— 

Jes’ jump my job here and be pard¬ 
ners with him! 

James Whitcomb Riley. 


OUR HIRED GIRL. 

Our hired girl, she’s ’Lizabuth Ann; 

An’ she can cook best things to eat! 
She ist puts dough in our pie-pan, 
An’ pours in somepin’ ’at’s good 
an’ sweet; 


Poems for Children 


3H 

An’ nen she salts it all on top 
With cinnamon; an ’ nen she ’ll stop 
An’ stoop an’ slide it, ist as slow, 

In th’ old cook-stove, so’s ’twon’t slop 
An’ git all spilled; nen bakes it, so 
It’s custard-pie, first thing you 
know! 

An’ nen she’ll say, 

“Clear out o’ my way! 

They’s time fer work, an’ time fer 
play! 

Take yer dough, an ’ run, child, run! 
Er I cain’t git no cookin’ done!” 


When our hired girl ’tends like she’s 
mad, 

An’ says folks got to walk the chalk 

When she’s around, er wisht they had! 

I play out on our porch an’ talk 

To Th’ Raggedy Man ’at mows our 
lawn; 

An’ he says, “Whew!” an’ nen leans 
on 

His old crook-scythe, and blinks his 
eyes, 

An’ sniffs all ’round an’ says, “I 
swawn! 

Ef my old nose don’t tell me lies, 

It ’pears like I smell custard-pies! ’ ’ 
An’ nen he’ll say, 

‘ 1 Clear out o ’ my way! 

They’s time fer work, an’ time fer 
play! 

Take yer dough, an’ run, child, run! 

Er she cain’t git no cookin’ done!” 


Wunst our hired girl, when she 
Got the supper, an’ we all et, 

An’ it wuz night, an’ Ma an’ me 
An’ Pa went wher’ the “Social” 
met,— 

An’ nen when we come home, an’ see 
A light in the kitchen door, an ’ we 
Heerd a maccodeun, Pa says, 
‘ ‘ Lan ’— 


0 ’—Gracious, who can her beau be ? ” 
An’ I marched in, an’ ’Lizabuth 
Ann 

Wuz parchin’ corn fer The Raggedy 
Man! 

Better say, 

‘ 1 Clear out o ’ the way! 

They’s time fer work, an’ time fer 
play! 

Take the hint, an ’ run, child, run! 
Er we cain’t git no courtin’ done!” 

James Whitcomb Riley. 


LITTLE ORPHANT ANNIE. 

Little Orphant Annie’s come to our 
house to stay, 

An’ wash the cups an’ saucers up, an’ 
brush the crumbs away, 

An’ shoo the chickens off the porch, 
an’ dust the hearth, an’ sweep, 

An’ make the fire, an’ bake the bread, 
an ’ earn her board-an ’-keep; 

An’ all us other childern, when the 
supper-tilings is done, 

We set around the kitchen fire an’ has 
the mostest fun 

A-list ’nin ’ to the witch-tales ’at Annie 
tells about, 

An ’ the Gobble-uns ’at gits you 
Ef you 
Don’t 
Watch 
Out! 


Wunst they wuz a little boy wouldn’t 
say his prayers,— 

An’ when he went to bed at night, 
away up-stairs, 

His Mammy heerd him holler, an’ his 
Daddy heerd him bawl, 

An ’ when they turn’t the kivvers 
down, he wuzn’t there at all! 


Humorous Verse 


An’ they seeked him in the rafter- 
room, an’ cubby-hole, an’ press, 
An’ seeked him up the chimbly-flue, 
an ’ ever ’wheres, I guess; 

But all they ever found wuz thist his 
pants an ’ round-about:— 

An’ the Gobble-uns ’ll git you 
Ef you 
Don’t 
Watch 
Out! 

An’ one time a little girl ’ud alius 
laugh and grin, 

An ’ make fun of ever ’ one, an ’ all her 
blood-an ’-kin; 

An’ wunst, when they wuz “com¬ 
pany, ” an ’ ole folks wuz there, 
She mocked ’em an’ shocked ’em, an’ 
said she didn’t care! 

An’ thist as she kicked her heels, an’ 
turn’t to run an ’ hide, 

They wuz two great big Black Things 
a-standin’ by her side, 

An’ they snatched her through the 
ceilin ’ ’fore she knowed what 
she’s about! 

An’ the Gobble-uns ’ll git you 
Ef you 
Don’t 
Watch 
Out! 

An’ little Orphant Annie says, when 
the blaze is blue, 

An’ the lamp wick sputters, an’ the 
wind goes woo-oo! 

An’ you hear the crickets quit, an’ 
the moon is gray, 

An’ the lightnin’-bugs in dew is all 
squenched away,— 

You better mind yer parunts, an’ yer 
teachers fond an’ dear, 

An’ churish them ’at loves you, an’ 
dry the orphant’s tear, 

An’ he’p the pore an’ needy ones ’at 
clusters all about, 


3 l 5 

Er the Gobble-uns ’ll git you 
Ef you 
Don’t 
Watch 
Out! 

James Whitcomb Riley. 

SEEIN’ THINGS. 

I ain’t afeard uv snakes, or toads, or 
bugs, or worms, or mice, 

An’ things ’at girls are skeered uv I 
think are awful nice! 

I’m pretty brave, I guess; an’ yet I 
hate to go to bed, 

For when I’m tucked up warm an’ 
snug an’ when my prayers are 
said, 

Mother tells me, “Happy Dreams!” 
an’ takes away the light, 

An’ leaves me lyin’ all alone an’ see- 
in ’ things at night! 

Sometimes they ’re in the corner, some¬ 
times they’re by the door, 

Sometimes they’re all a-standin’ in 
the middle uv the floor; 

Sometimes they are a-sittin’ down, 
sometimes they’re walkin’ round 

So softly and so creepylike they never 
make a sound! 

Sometimes they are as black as ink, 
an’ other times they’re white— 

But the color ain’t no difference when 
you see things at night! 

Once, when I licked a feller ’at had 
just moved on our street, 

An’ father sent me up to bed without 
a bite to eat, 

I woke up in the dark an’ saw things 
standin’ in a row, 

A-lookin’ at me cross-eyed an’ p’intin’ 
at me—so! 


Poems for Children 


316 

Oh, 1113O I wuz so sheered that time I 
never step ’ a mite— 

It’s almost alluz when I’m bad I see 
things at night! 

Lucky thing I ain’t a girl, or I’d be 
sheered to death! 

Bein’ I’m a boy, I duck my head an’ 
hold my breath; 

An’ I am, oh, so sorry I’m a naughty 
boy, an’ then 

I promise to be better an’ I say my 
prayers again! 

Gran’ma tells me that’s the only way 
to make it right 

When a feller has been wicked an’ 
secs things at night! 

An’ so, when other naughty boys 
would coax me into sin, 

I try to skwush the Tempter’s voice 
’at urges me within; 

An’ when they’s pie for supper, or 
cakes ’at’s big an’ nice, 

I want to—but I do not pass my plate 
f’r them things twice! 

No, ruther let Starvation wipe me 
slowly out o’ sight 

Than I should keep a-livin’ on an’ 
seein’ things at night! 

Eugene Field. 


JEST ’FORE CHRISTMAS. 

Father calls me William, sister calls 
me Will, 

Mother calls me Willie, but the fellers 
call me Bill! 

Mighty glad I ain’t a girl—ruther be 
a boy, 

Without them sashes, curls, an’ things 
what’s worn by Fauntleroy! 

Love to chawnk green apples an’ go 
swimmin ’ in the lake— 

Hate to take the castor-ile they give 
for belly-ache! 


’Most all the time, the whole year 
round, there ain’t no flies on me, 
But jest ’fore Christmas I’m as good 
as I kin be! 

Got a yeller dog named Sport, sick 
him on the cat; 

First thing she knows she doesn’t 
know where she is at; 

Got a clipper sled, an’ when us kids 
goes out to slide, 

’Long comes the grocery cart, an’ we 
all hook a ride! 

But sometimes when the grocery man 
is worrited an’ cross, 

He reaches at us with his whip, an’ 
larrups up his hoss, 

An’ then I laff an’ holler, “Oh, ye 
never teched me!” 

But jest ’fore Christmas I’m as good 
as I kin be! 

Gran’ma says she hopes that when I 
git to be a man, 

I’ll be a missionarer like her oldest 
brother, Dan, 

As was et up by the cannibuls that 
lives in Ceylon’s Isle, 

Where every prospeck pleases, an’ 
only man is vile! 

But gran’ma she has never been to 
see a Wild West show, 

Nor read the Life of Daniel Boone, or 
else I guess she’d know 
That Buff’lo Bill and cowboys is good 
enough for me! 

Except jest ’fore Christmas, when I’m 
good as I kin be! 

And then old Sport he hangs around, 
so solemn-like an’ still, 

His eyes they keep a-sayin’: “What’s 
the matter, little Bill?” 

The old cat sneaks down off her perch 
an’ wonders what’s become 
Of them two enemies of hern that 
used to make things hum! 




© G. W. J. & CO. 

But jest ’fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin he! 

JEST ’fore CHRISTMAS 
















Humorous Verse 


But I am so perlite an’ ’tend so ear¬ 
nestly to biz, 

That mother says to father: ‘ ‘ How im¬ 
proved our Willie is!” 

But father, havin’ been a boy hisself, 
suspicions me 

When, jest ’fore Christmas, I’m as 
good as I kin be! 

For Christmas, with its lots an’ lots 
of candies, cakes, an’ toys, 

Was made, they say, for proper kids 
an’ not for naughty boys; 


3 l 7 

So wash yer face an’ bresh yer hair, 
an’ mind yer p’s an’ q’s, 

An’ don’t bust out yer pantaloons, 
an’ don’t wear out yer shoes; 
Say “Yessum” to the ladies, an’ 
“ Yessur” to the men, 

An’ when they’s company, don’t pass 
yer plate for pie again ; 

But, thinkin’ of the things yer’d like 
to see upon that tree, 

Jest ’fore Christmas be as good as yer 
kin be! 


Eugene Field. 


XI 


t 


Poems of Patriotism and History 


THE HERITAGE. 

The rich man’s son inherits lands, 
And piles of brick, and stones, and 
gold, 

And he inherits soft, white hands, 
And tender flesh that fears the cold, 
Nor dares to wear a garment old; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 

The rich man’s son inherits cares: 
The bank may break, the factory 
burn, 

A breath may burst his bubble shares, 
And soft white hands could hardly 
earn 

A living that would serve his turn; 
A heritage, it seems to me, 

One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 

The rich man’s son inherits wants, 
His stomach craves for dainty fare; 
With sated heart, he hears the pants 
Of toiling hinds and brown arms 
bare, 

And wearies in his easy chair! 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 

What doth the poor man’s son inherit ? 

Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, 

A hardy frame, a hardier spirit, 

King of two hands, he does his part 
In every useful toil and art; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

A king might wish to hold in fee. 


What doth the poor man’s son inherit ? 
Wishes o’er joyed with humble 
things, 

A rank adjudged by toil-worn merit, 
Content that from employment 
springs, 

A heart that in his labour sings; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

A king might wish to hold in fee. 

What doth the poor man’s son inherit ? 

A patience learned of being poor, 
Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, 

A fellow-feeling that is sure 
To make the outcast bless his door; 
A heritage, it seems to me, 

A king might wish to hold in fee. 

0 rich man’s son! there is a toil 
That with all others level stands; 
Large charity doth never soil, 

But only whiten, soft white hands,— 
This is the best crop from thy lands; 
A heritage, it seems to me, 

Worth being rich to hold in fee. 

0 poor man’s son! scorn not thy state; 

There is worse weariness than thine 
In merely being rich and great: 

Toil only gives the soul to shine, 
And makes rest fragrant and be¬ 
nign ; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

Worth being poor to hold in fee. 


Poems of Patriotism and History 319 


Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, 

Are equal in the earth at last; 

Both, children of the same dear God, 

Prove title to your heirship vast 

By record of a well-filled past; 

A heritage, it seems to me, 

Well worth a life to hold in fee. 

James Russell Lowell. 

TO ENGLAND. 

I. 

Lear and Cordelia! ’twas an ancient 
tale 

Before thy Shakespeare gave it 
deathless fame; 

The times have changed, the moral 
is the same. 

So like an outcast, dowerless and pale, 

Thy daughter went; and in a foreign 
gale 

Spread her young banner, till its 
sway became 

A wonder to the nations. Days of 
shame 

Are close upon thee; prophets raise 
their wail. 

When the rude Cossack with an out¬ 
stretched hand 

Points his long spear across the nar¬ 
row sea,— 

“Lo! there is England!” when thy 
destiny 

Storms on thy straw-crowned head, 
and thou dost stand 

Weak, helpless, mad, a by-word in the 
land,— 

God grant thy daughter a Cordelia 
be! 

II. 

Stand, thou great bulwark of man’s 
liberty! 

Thou rock of shelter, rising from 
the wave, 

Sole refuge to the overwearied 
brave 


Who planned, arose, and battled to be 
free, 

Fell, undeterred, then sadly turned to 
thee,— 

Saved the free spirit from their 
country’s grave, 

To rise again, and animate the slave, 
When God shall ripen all things. 
Britons, ye 

Who guard the sacred outpost, not in 
vain 

Hold your proud peril! Freemen 
undefiled, 

Keep watch and ward! Let battle¬ 
ments be piled 

Around your cliffs; fleets marshalled, 
till the main 

Sink under them; and if your courage 
wane, 

Through force or fraud, look west¬ 
ward to your child! 

George Henry Boker. 

THE FATHERLAND. 

Where is the true man’s fatherland 1 ? 

Is it where he by chance is born ? 

Doth not the yearning spirit scorn 
In such scant borders to be spanned? 
Oh yes! his fatherland must be 
As the blue heaven, wide and free! 

Is it alone where freedom is, 

Where God is God and man is man ? 

Doth he not claim a broader span 
For the soul’s love of home than this? 
Oh yes! his fatherland must be 
As the blue heaven, wide and free! 

Where’er a human heart doth wear 

Joy’s myrtle-wreath or sorrow’s 
gyves, 

Where ’er a human spirit strives 
After a life more true and fair, 
There is the true man’s birthplace 
grand, 

His is the world-wide fatherland! 


Poems for Children 


3 20 

Where’er a single slave doth pine, 
Where’er one man may help an¬ 
other,— 

Thank God for such a birthright, 
brother,— 

That spot of earth is thine and mine! 

There is the true man’s birthplace, 
grand, 

His is the world-wide fatherland! 

James Russell Lowell. 


“ READY, AY, READY.” 

Old England’s sons are English yet, 
Old England’s hearts are strong; 
And still she wears her coronet 
Aflame with sword and song. 

As in their pride our fathers died, 
If need be, so die we; 

So wield we still, gainsay who will, 
The sceptre of the sea. 

England, stand fast; let heart and 
hand be steady; 

Be thy first word thy last,—Ready, ay, 
ready! 

We’ve Raleighs still for Raleigh’s 
part, 

We’ve Nelsons yet unknown; 
The pulses of the Lion Heart 
Beat on through Wellington. 
Hold, Britain, hold thy creed of 
old, 

Strong foe and steadfast friend, 
And, still unto thy motto true, 
Defy not, but defend. 

England, stand fast; let heart and 
hand be steady; 

Be thy first word thy last,—Ready, ay, 
ready! 

Men whispered that our arm was 
weak, 

Men said our blood was cold, 

And that our hearts no longer speak 
The clarion-note of old; 


But let the spear and sword draw 
near 

The sleeping lion’s den, 

His island shore shall start once 
more 

To life with armed men. 

England, stand fast; let heart and 
hand be steady; 

Be thy first word thy last,—Ready, ay, 
ready! 

Herman Charles Merivale. 


AGINCOURT. 

Agincourt, Agincourt! 

Know ye not Agincourt, 

Where English slew and hurt 
All their French foemen? 
With their pikes and bills brown, 
How the French were beat down, 
Shot by our Bowmen? 

Agincourt, Agincourt! 

Know ye not Agincourt, 

English of every sort, 

High men and low men, 
Fought that day wondrous well, 
All our stories tell, 

Thanks to our Bowmen! 

Agincourt, Agincourt! 

Know ye not Agincourt? 

Where our fifth Harry taught 
Frenchmen to know men : 
And, when the day was done, 
Thousands there fell to one 
Good English Bowman! 

Unknown. 


THE TRAVELLER’S RETURN. 

Sweet to the morning traveller 
The song amid the sky, 

Where, twinkling in the dewy light, 
The skylark soars on high. 


3 21 


Poems of Patriotism and History 


And cheering to the traveller 
The gales that round him play, 
When faint and heavily he drags, 
Along his noontide way. 

And when beneath th J unclouded sun 
Full wearily toils he, 

The flowing water makes to him 
A soothing melody. 

And when the evening light decays 
And all is calm around, 

There is sweet music to his ear 
In the distant sheep-bell’s sound. 

But, oh! of all delightful sounds 
Of evening or of morn, 

The sweetest is the voice of love 
That welcomes his return. 

Robert Southey . 

MY NATIVE LAND. 

Breathes there a man with soul so 
dead, 

Who never to himself hath said, 

‘ ‘ This is my own—my native land! ’ ’ 
Whose heart hath ne’er within him 
burned, 

As home his footsteps he hath turned, 
From wandering on a foreign 
strand ? 

If such there breathe, go, mark him 
well! 

For him no minstrel’s raptures swell. 
High though his titles, proud his 
name, 

Boundless his wealth as wish can 
claim,— 

Despite those titles, power, and pelf, 
The wretch, concentred all in self, 
Living shall forfeit fair renown, 

And, doubly dying, shall go down 
To the vile dust from whence he 
sprung, 

Unwept, unhonored, and unsung. 

Walter Scott. 


HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE. 

How sleep the Brave who sink to rest 
By all their country’s wishes blest 1 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cohl, 
Returns to deck their hallowed mould, 
She there shall dress a sweeter sod 
Than Fancy’s feet have ever trod. 

By fairy hands their knell is rung; 

By forms unseen their dirge is sung; 
There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray, 
To bless the turf that wraps their 
clay; 

And Freedom shall await repair 
To dwell a weeping hermit there. 

William Collins. 


FOR A’ THAT, AND A’ THAT. 

Is there, for honest poverty, 

That hangs his head, and a’ that? 
The coward slave, we pass him by, 

And dare be poor for a’ that! 

For a’ that, and a’ that! 

Our toils obscure, and a’ that; 
The rank is but the guinea stamp; 
The man’s the gowd for a’ that. 

What tho’ on hamely fare we dine, 
Wear hodden-grey, and a’ that; 

Gie fools their silks, and knaves their 
wine, 

A man’s a man, for a’ that. 

For a’ that, and a’ that, 

Their tinsel show, and a ’ that, 
The honest man, tho’ ne’er sae 
poor, 

Is king o’ men for a’ that. 

You see yon birkie, ca’d a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares and a’ that; 
Tho’ hundreds worship at his word, 
He’s but a coof for a’ that; 


Poems for Children 


3 22 

For a’ that, and a’ that, 

His riband, star and a’ that, 
The man of independent mind 
He looks and laughs at a’ that. 

A king can make a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke and a’ that; 

But an honest man ’s aboon his might, 
Guid faith he maunna fa 9 that! 

For a’ that, and a’ that, 

Their dignities, and a’ that, 
The pith o’ sense, and pride o’ 
worth, 

Are higher ranks than a’ that. 

Then let us pray that come it may, 

As come it will for a’ that, 

That sense and worth, o’er a’ the 
earth, 

May bear the gree, and a ’ that; 

For a’ that, and a’ that, 

It’s coming yet, for a’ that; 
That man to man, the warld o’er, 
Shall brothers be for a’ that. 

Robert Burns. 

OUR MOTHER TONGUE.. 

Beyond the vague Atlantic deep, 

Far as the farthest prairies sweep, 
Where forest-glooms the nerve appall, 
Where burns the radiant western fall, 
One duty lies on old and young,— 
With filial piety to guard, 

As on its greenest native sward, 

The glory of the English tongue. 
That ample speech! That subtle 
speech! 

Apt for the need of all and each, 
Strong to endure, yet prompt to bend 
Wherever human feelings tend. 
Preserve its force—expand its powers; 
And through the maze of civic life, 

In Letters, Commerce, even in Strife, 
Forget not it is yours and ours. 

Lord Houghton. 

(Richard Monckton Milnes.) 


THE ISLES OF GREECE. 

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! 
Where burning Sappho loved and 
sung, 

Where grew the arts of war and 
peace— 

Where Delos rose, and Phoebus 
sprung! 

Eternal summer gilds them yet, 

But all except their sun is set. 

The Scian and the Teian muse, 

The hero’s harp, the lover’s lute, 

Have found the fame your shores 
refuse; 

Their place of birth alone is mute 

To sounds which echo further west 

Than your sires’ “Islands of the 
Blest.” 

The mountains look on Marathon— 
And Marathon looks on the sea; 

And musing there an hour alone, 

I dreamed that Greece might still be 
free; 

For standing on the Persians’ grave, 

I could not deem myself a slave. 

# # # 

George Gordon Byron. 

ENGLAND. 

I. 

This royal throne of Kings, this 
sceptred isle, 

This earth of majesty, this seat of 
Mars, 

This other Eden, demi-paradise; 

This fortress, built by nature for her¬ 
self, 

Against infection and the hand of 
war; 

This happy breed of men, this little 
world; 

This precious stone set in the silver 
sea, 


Poems of Patriotism and History 


Which, serves it in the office of a wall, 

Or as a moat defensive to a house, 

Against the envy of less happier lands, 

This blessed plot, this earth, this 
realm, this England. 

William Shakespeare. 

ENGLAND. 

II. 

This England never did, nor never 
shall, 

Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror 

But when it first did help to wound 
itself. 

Now these her princes are come home 
again, 

Come the three corners of the world 
in arms 

And we shall shock them: Naught 
shall make us rue, 

If England to itself do rest but true. 

William Shakespeare. 

THE DESTRUCTION OF 
SENNACHERIB. 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf 
on the fold, 

And his cohorts were gleaming in 
purple and gold; 

And the sheen of their spears was like 
stars on the sea, 

When the blue wave rolls nightly on 
deep Galilee. 

Like the leaves of the forest when 
Summer is green, 

That host with their banners at sun¬ 
set were seen: 

Like the leaves of the forest when 
Autumn hath flown, 

That host on the morrow lay withered 
and strown. 


3 2 3 

For the Angel of Death spread his 
wings on the blast, 

And breathed in the face of the foe as 
he passed; 

And the eyes of the sleepers waxed 
deadly and chill, 

And their hearts but once heaved, and 
forever grew still. 

And there lay the steed with his nos¬ 
tril all wide, 

But through it there rolled not the 
breath of his pride; 

And the foam of his gasping lay white 
on the turf, 

And cold as the spray of the rock¬ 
beating surf. 

And there lay the rider distorted and 
pale, 

With the dew on his brow, and the 
rust on his mail; 

And the tents were all silent, the 
banners alone, 

The lances unlifted, the trumpet un¬ 
blown. 

And the widows of Ashur are loud 
in their wail, 

And the idols are broke in the temple 
of Baal; 

And the might of the Gentile, unsmote 
by the sword, 

Hath melted like snow in the glance of 
the Lord! 

George Gordon Byron. 

SAXON GRIT. 

Worn with the battle of Stamford 
town, 

Fighting the Norman by Hastings 
bay, 

Harold the Saxon’s sun went down, 

While the acorns were falling one 
autumn day. 

Then the Norman said, “I am lord of 
the land: 

By tenor of conquest here I sit; 


Poems for Children 


3 2 4 

I will rule you now with the iron 
hand; ’ 1 

But he had not thought of the 
Saxon grit. 

He took the land, and he took the men, 

And burnt the homesteads from 
Trent to Tyne, 

Made the freemen serfs by a stroke of 
the pen, 

Eat up the corn and drank the wine, 

And said to maiden, pure and fair, 

“You shall be my leman, as is most 
fit, 

Your Saxon churl may rot in his 
lair; ’’ 

But he had not measured the Saxon 
grit. 


To the merry greenwood went bold 
Robin Hood, 

With his strong-hearted yeomanry 
ripe for the fray, 

Driving the arrow into the marrow 
Of all the proud Normans who came 
in his way; 

Scorning the fetter, fearless and free, 
Winning by valor, or foiling by wit, 
Dear to our Saxon folk ever is he, 

This merry old rogue with the 
Saxon grit. 


And Kett the tanner whipped out his 
knife, 

And Watt the smith his hammer 
brought down, 

For ruth of the maid he loved better 
than life, 

And by breaking a head, made a 
hole in the Crown. 

From the Saxon heart rose a mighty 
roar, 

‘ 4 Our life shall not be by the King’s 
permit; 


We will fight for the right, we want 
no more;” 

Then the Norman found out the 
Saxon grit. 

For slow and sure as the oaks had 
grown 

From acorns falling that autumn 
day, 

So the Saxon manhood in thorpe and 
town 

To a nobler stature grew alway; 

Winning by inches, holding by 
clinches, 

Standing by law and the human 
right, 

Many times failing, never once quail¬ 
ing, 

So the new day came out of the 
night. 

Then rising afar in the Western sea, 

A "new world stood in the morn of 
the day, 

Ready to welcome the brave and free, 

Who would wrench out the heart 
and march away 

From the narrow, contracted, dear old 
land, 

Where the poor are held by a cruel 
bit, 

To ampler spaces for heart and 
hand— 

And here was a chance for the 
Saxon grit. 

Steadily steering, eagerly peering, 

Trusting in God your fathers came, 

Pilgrims and strangers, fronting all 
dangers, 

Cool-headed Saxons, with hearts 
aflame. 

Bound by the letter, but free from the 
fetter, 

And hiding their freedom in Holy 
Writ, 


Poems of Patriotism and History 


They gave Deuteronomy hints in 
economy, 

And made a new Moses of Saxon 
grit. 

They whittled and waded through for¬ 
est and fen, 

Fearless as ever of what might 
befall; 

Pouring out life for the nurture of 
men, 

In faith that by manhood the world 
wins all. 

Inventing baked beans and no end of 
machines; 

Great with the rifle and great with 
the axe— 

Sending their notions over the oceans, 

To fill empty stomachs and 
straighten bent backs. 

Swift to take chances that end in the 
dollar, 

Yet open of hand when the dollar 
is made, 

Maintaining the meeting exalting the 
scholar, 

But a little too anxious about a good 
trade; 

This is young Jonathan, son of old 
John, 

Positive, peaceable, firm in the right, 

Saxon men all of us, may we be one, 

Steady for freedom, and strong in 
her might. 

Then, slow and sure, as the oaks have 
grown 

From the acorns that fell on that 
autumn day, 

So this new manhood in city and town, 

To a nobler stature will grow al- 
way; 

Winning by inches, holding by 
clinches, 

Slow to contention, and slower to 
quit, 


3 2i > 

Now and then failing, never once 
quailing, 

Let us thank God for the Saxon 
grit. 

Robert Collyer. 


HOME THOUGHTS FROM 
ABROAD. 

On! to be in England 
Now that April’s there, 

And whoever wakes in England 
Sees, some morning, unaware, 

That the lowest boughs and the brush¬ 
wood sheaf 

Round the elm-tree bole are in tiny 
leaf, 

While the chaffinch sings on the 
orchard bough 

In England—now! 

And after April, when May follows, 

And the whitethroat builds, and all 
the swallows— 

Hark! where my blossomed pear-tree 
in the hedge 

Leans to the field and scatters on 
the clover 

Blossoms and dew-drops—at the bent 
spray’s edge— 

That’s the wise thrush; he sings 
each song twice over, 

Lest you should think he never could 
recapture 

The first fine careless rapture! 

And though the fields look rough with 
hoary dew, 

All will be gay when noon-tide wakes 
anew 

The buttercups, the little children’s 
dower, 

—Far brighter than this gaudy melon- 
flower. 


Robert Browning. 


Poems for Children 


326 

HOME THOUGHTS FROM 
THE SEA. 

Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to 
the north-west died away; 

Sunset ran, one glorious blood-red, 
recking into Cadiz Bay; 

Bluish mid the burning water, full in 
face Trafalgar lay; 

In the dimmest north-east distance, 
dawned Gibraltar grand and gay; 

“Here and here did England help 
me—How can I help England V 1 
—say, 

Whoso turns as I, this evening, turn 
to God to praise and pray, 

While Jove’s planet rises yonder, 
silent over Africa. 

Robert Browning. 

IVRY. 

(March 14, 1590) 

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from 
whom all glories are! 

And glory to our Sovereign Liege, 
King Henry of Navarre! 

Now let there be the merry sound of 
music and of dance, 

Through thy corn-fields green, and 
sunny vines, oh pleasant land of 
France! 

And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, 
proud city of the waters, 

Again let rapture light the eyes of all 
thy mourning daughters. 

As thou wert constant in our ills, be 
joyous in our joy; 

For cold, and stiff, and still are they 
who wrought thy walls annoy. 

Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath 
turned the chance of war. 

Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry 
of Navarre. 


Oh! how our hearts were beating, 
when, at the dawn of day, 

We saw the army of the League drawn 
out in long array; 

With all its priest-led citizens, and all 
its rebel peers, 

And Appenzel’s stout infantry, and 
Egmont’s Flemish spears. 

There rode the brood of false Lor¬ 
raine, the curses of our land; 

And dark Mayenne was in the midst, 
a truncheon in his hand; 

And, as we looked on them, we thought 
of Seine’s empurpled flood, 

And good Coligni’s hoary hair all dab¬ 
bled with his blood; 

And we cried unto the living God, who 
rules the fate of war, 

To fight for His own holy name, and 
Henry of Navarre. 

The King is come to marshall us, in 
all his armor dressed; 

And he has bound a snow-white plume 
upon his gallant crest. 

And looked upon his people, and a 
tear was in his eye; 

He looked upon the traitors, and his 
glance was stern and high. 

Right graciously he smiled on us, as 
rolled from wing to wing, 

Down all our line, a deafening shout: 

“God save our Lord the King!” 
“And if my standard-bearer fall, as 
fall full well he may, 

For never saw I promise yet of such a 
bloody fray, 

Press where ye see my white plume 
shine, amidst the ranks of war, 
And be your oriflamme to-day the hel¬ 
met of Navarre.” 

Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark 
to the mingled din, 

Of fife, and steed, and trump, and 
drum, and roaring culverin. 


Poems of Patriotism and History 327 


The fiery Duke is pricking fast across 
Saint Andre’s plain, 

With all the hireling chivalry of Guel- 
ders and Almayne. 

Now by the lips of those ye love, fair 
gentlemen of France, 

Charge for the Golden Lilies,—upon 
them with the lance! 

A thousand spurs are striking deep, a 
thousand spears in rest, 

A thousand knights are pressing close 
behind the snow-white crest; 

And in they burst, and on they rushed, 
while, like a guiding star, 

Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the 
helmet of Navarre. 

Now, God be praised, the day is ours. 
Mayenne hath turned his rein; 

D ’Aumale hath cried for quarter; the 
Flemish count is slain. 

Their ranks are breaking like thin 
clouds before a Biscay gale; 

The field is heaped with bleeding 
steeds, and flags, and cloven mail. 

And then we thought on vengeance, 
and, all along our van, 

‘ ‘ Remember Saint Bartholomew ! ’ ’ 
was passed from man to man. 

But out spake gentle Henry, “No 
Frenchman is my foe: 

Down, down with every foreigner, but 
let your brethren go.” 

Oh! was there ever such a knight, in 
friendship or in war, 

As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, 
the soldier of Navarre? 

Right well fought all the Frenchmen 
who fought for France to-day; 

And many a lordly banner God gave 
them for a prey. 

But we of the religion have borne us 
best in fight; 

And the good Lord of Rosny hath 
ta’en the cornet white. 


Our own true Maximilian the cornet 
white hath ta’en, 

The cornet white with crosses black, 
the flag of false Lorraine. 

Up with it high; unfurl it wide; that 
all the host may know 

How God hath humbled the proud 
house which wrought His Church 
such woe. 

Then on the ground, while trumpets 
sound their loudest point of war, 

Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet 
for Henry of Navarre. 

Ho! maidens of Vienna; ho! matrons 
of Lucerne; 

Weep, weep, and rend your hair for 
those who never shall return. 

Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy 
Mexican pistoles, 

That Antwerp monks may sing a mass 
for thy poor spearmen’s souls. 

Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look 
that your arms be bright; 

Ho! burghers of St. Genevieve, keep 
watch and ward to-night; 

For our God hath crushed the tyrant, 
our God hath raised the slave, 

And mocked the counsel of the wise, 
and the valor of the brave. 

Then glory to His holy name, from 
whom all glories are; 

And glory to our Sovereign Lord, 
King Henry of Navarre! 

Thomas Babington Macaulay. 

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND. 

Ye Mariners of England! 

That guard our native seas; 

Whose flag has braved, a thousand 
years, 

The battle and the breeze! 

Your glorious standard launch again 

To match another foe! 

And sweep through the deep, 


Poems for Children 


328 

While the stormy winds do blow; 
While the battle rages loud and long, 
And the stormy tempests blow. 

The spirits of your fathers 

Shall start from every wave!— 
From the deck it was their field of 
fame, 

And Ocean was their grave: 

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, 
Your manly hearts shall glow, 

As ye sweep through the deep, 

While the stormy tempests blow; 
While the battle rages loud and long, 
And the stormy winds do blow. 

Britannia needs no bulwark, 

No towers along the steep: 

Her march is o’er the mountain-waves, 
Her home is on the deep. 

With thunders from her native oak, 
She quells the floods below,— 

As they roar on the shore, 

When the stormy tempests blow: 
When the battle rages loud and long, 
And the stormy winds do blow. 

The meteor flag of England 
Shall yet terrific burn; 

Till danger’s troubled night depart, 
And the star of peace return. 

Then, then, ye ocean-warriors! 

Our song and feast shall flow 
To the fame of your name, 

When the storm has ceased to blow; 
When the fiery fight is heard no more, 
And the storm has ceased to blow. 

Thomas Campbell . 

“ENGLAND, MY ENGLAND” 

Wpiat have I done for you, 

England, my England? 

What is there I would not do, 
England, my own? 

With your glorious eyes austere, 


As the Lord were walking near, 
Whispering terrible things and dear 
As the Song on your bugles blown, 
England— 

Round the world on your bugles 
blown! 

Where shall the watchful Sun, 
England, my England, 

Match the master-work you’ve done, 
England, my own? 

When shall he rejoice a gen 
Such a breed of mighty men 
As come forward, one to ten, 

To the Song on your bugles blown, 
England— 

Down the years on your bugles 
blown ? 

Ever the faith endures, 

England, my England:— 

‘ ‘ Take and break us: we are yours, 
England, my own! 

Life is good, and joy runs high 
Between English earth and sky: 
Death is death; but we shall die 
To the Song on your bugles blown, 
England— 

To the stars on your bugles blown!” 

They call you proud and hard, 
England, my England: 

You with worlds to watch and ward, 
England, my own! 

Y ou whose mailed hand keeps the keys 
Of such teeming destinies, 

You could know nor dread nor ease 
Were the Song on your bugles 
blown, 

England— 

Round the Pit on your bugles 
blown! 

Mother of ships whose might 
England, my England, 

Is the fierce old Sea’s delight, 
England, my own, 


3 2 9 


Poems of Patriotism and History 


Chosen daughter of the Lord, 

Spouse-in-Chief of the ancient Sword, 

There’s the menace of the Word 
In the Song on your bugles blown, 
England— 

Out of heaven on your bugles 
blown! 

William Ernest Henley. 

BOADICEA. 

AN ODE. 

When the British warrior queen, 
Bleeding from the Roman rods, 

Sought, with an indignant mien, 
Counsel of her country’s gods; 

Sage beneath a spreading oak 
Sat the Druid, hoary chief; 

Every burning word he spoke 
Full of rage, and full of grief. 

Princess! if our aged eyes 
Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 

’Tis because resentment ties 
All the terrors of our tongues. 

Rome shall perish—write that word 
In the blood that she has spilt; 

Perish, hopeless and abhorr’d, 

Deep in ruin as in guilt. 

Rome, for empire far renown’d, 
Tramples on a thousand states; 

Soon her pride shall kiss the ground— 
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates! 

Other Romans shall arise, 

Heedless of a soldier’s name; 

Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize, 
Harmony the path to fame. 

Then the progeny that springs 
From the forests of our land, 

Arm’d with thunder, clad with wings 
Shall a wider world command. 


Regions Caesar never knew 
Thy posterity shall sway; 

Where his eagles never flew, 

None invincible as they. 

Such the bard’s prophetic words, 
Pregnant with celestial fire, 
Bending as he swept the chords 
Of his sweet but awful lyre. 

She, with all a monarch’s pride, 

Felt them in her bosom glow; 
Rush’d to battle, fought, and died; 
Dying hurl’d them at the foe; 

Ruffians, pitiless and proud, 

Heaven awards the vengeance due; 
Empire is on us bestowed, 

Shame and ruin wait on you. 

William Cowpcr. 

% 

COLUMBUS. 

(January, 1487) 

St. Stephen’s cloistered hall was 
proud 

In learning’s pomp that day, 

For there a robed and stately crowd 
Pressed on in long array. 

A mariner with simple chart 
Confronts that conclave high, 
While strong ambition stirs his heart, 
And burning thoughts of wonder part 
From lip and sparkling eye. 

What hath he said? With frowning 
face, 

In whispered tones they speak, 

And lines upon their tablets trace, 
Which flush each ashen cheek; 

The Inquisition’s mystic doom 
Sits on their brows severe, 

And bursting forth in visioned gloom, 
Sad heresy from burning tomb 
Groans on the startled ear. 


Poems for Children 


33° 

Courage, thou Genoese! Old Time 
Thy splendid dream shall crown; 
Yon Western Hemisphere sublime, 
Where unshorn forests frown, 

The awful Andes’ cloud-wrapped 
brow, 

The Indian hunter’s bow, 

Bold streams untamed by helm or 
prow, 

And rocks of gold and diamonds, thou 
To thankless Spain shalt show. 

Courage, World-finder! Thou hast 
need! 

In Pate’s unfolding scroll, 

Dark woes and ingrate wrongs I read, 
That rack the noble soul. 

On! on! Creation’s secrets probe, 
Then drink thy cup of scorn, 

And wrapped in fallen Caesar’s robe, 
Sleep like that master of the globe, 

All glorious,—yet forlorn. 

Lydia Huntly Sigourney. 

THE SONG OF THE CAMP. 

“Give us a song!” the soldiers cried, 
The outer trenches guarding, 

When the heated guns of the camps 
allied 

Grew weary of bombarding. 

The dark Redan, in silent scoff, 

Lay, grim and threatening, under; 
And the tawny mound of the Malakoff 
No longer belched its thunder. 

There was a pause. A guardsman 
said, 

“We storm the forts to-morrow; 
Sing while we may, another day 
Will bring enough of sorrow. ’ ’ 

They lay along the battery’s side, 
Below the smoking cannon: 

Brave hearts, from Severn and from 
Clyde, 

And from the banks of Shannon. 


They sang of love, and not of fame; 

Forgot was Britain’s glory: 

Each heart recalled a different name, 
But all sang “Annie Laurie.” 

Voice after voice caught up the song, 
Until its tender passion 
Rose like an anthem, rich and strong,— 
Their battle-eve confession. 

Dear girl, her name he dared not 
speak, 

But, as the song grew louder, 
Something upon the soldier’s check 
Washed off the stains of powder. 

Beyond the darkening ocean burned 
The bloody sunset’s embers, 

While the Crimean valleys learned 
How English love remembers. 

And once again a fire of hell 
Rained on the Russian quarters, 
With scream of shot and burst of 
shell, 

And bellowing of the mortars! 

And Irish Nora’s eyes are dim 
For a singer, dumb and gory; 

And English Mary mourns for him 
Who sang of “Annie Laurie.” 

Sleep, soldiers still in honoured rest 
Your truth and valour wearing: 
The bravest are the tenderest,— 

The loving are the daring. 

Bayard Taylor. 

THE ARMADA. 

Attend, all ye who list to hear our 
noble England’s praise; 

I sing of the thrice famous deeds she 
wrought in ancient days, 

When that great fleet invincible, 
against her bore, in vain, 

The richest spoils of Mexico, the stout 
est hearts in Spain. 


Poems of Patriotism and History 331 


It was about the lovely close of a 
warm summer’s day, 

There came a gallant merchant ship 
full sail to Plymouth bay; 

The crew had seen Castile’s black fleet, 
beyond Aurigny’s isle, 

At earliest twilight, on the waves, lie 
heaving many a mile. 

At sunrise she escaped their van, by 
God’s especial grace; 

And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had 
held her close in chase. 

Forthwith a guard, at every gun, was 
placed along the wall; 

The beacon blazed upon the roof of 
Edgecombe’s lofty hall; 

Many a light fishing bark put out, to 
pry along the coast; 

And with loose rein, and bloody spin*, 
rode inland many a post. 

With his white hair, unbonneted, the 
stout old sheriff comes, 

Behind him march the halberdiers, 
before him sound the drums: 

The yeomen, round the market cross, 
make clear and ample space, 

For there behoves him to set up the 
standard of Her Grace: 

And haughtily the trumpets peal, and 
gaily dance the bells, 

As slow upon the labouring wind the 
royal blazon swells. 

Look how the lion of the sea lifts up 
his ancient crown, 

And underneath his deadly paw treads 
the gay lilies down! 

So stalked he when he turned to flight, 
on that famed Picard field, 
Bohemia’s plume, and Genoa’s bow, 
and Csesar’s eagle shield: 

So glared he when, at Agincourt, in 
wrath he turned to bay, 

And crushed and torn, beneath his 
claws, the princely hunters lay. 
Ho! strike the flagstaff deep, sir knight! 
I10! scatter flowers, fair maids! 


Ho, gunners! fire a loud salute! ho, 
gallants! draw your blades! 

Thou, sun, shine on her joyously! ye 
breezes, waft her wide! 

Our glorious semper ecidem! the ban¬ 
ner of our pride! 


The fresh’ning breeze of eve unfurled 
that banner’s massy fold— 

The parting gleam of sunshine kissed 
that haughty scroll of gold: 
Night sunk upon the dusky beach, and 
on the purple sea; 

Such night in England ne’er had 
been, nor ne’er again shall be. 
From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, 
from Lynn to Milford Bay, 

That time of slumber was as bright, 
as busy as the day; 

For swift to east, and swift to west, 
the warning radiance spread— 
High on St.Michael’s Mount it shone— 
it shone on Beachy Head: 

Far o’er the deep the Spaniard saw, 
along each southern shire, 

Cape beyond cape, in endless range, 
those twinkling points of fire. 
The fisher left his skiff to rock on 
Tamar’s glittering waves, 

The rugged miners poured to war, 
from Mendip’s sunless caves; 
O’er Longleat’s towers, or Cran- 
bourne’s oaks, the fiery herald 
flew, 

And roused the shepherds of Stone¬ 
henge—the rangers of Beaulieu. 
Right sharp and quick the bells rang 
out all night from Bristol town; 
And, ere the day, three hundred horse 
had met on Clifton Down. 


The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked 
forth into the night, 

And saw o’erhanging Richmond Hill, 
that streak of blood-red light: 


Poems for Children 


33 2 

The bugle’s note, and cannon’s roar, 
the death-like silence broke, 

And with one start, and with one cry, 
the royal city woke; 

At once, on all her stately gates, arose 
the answering fires; 

At once the wild alarum clashed from 
all her reeling spires; 

From all the batteries of the Tower 
pealed loud the voice of fear, 

And all the thousand masts of Thames 
sent back a louder cheer: 

And from the farthest wards was 
heard the rush of hurrying feet, 
And the broad streams of flags and 
pikes dashed down each rousing 
street: 


And broader still became the blaze, 
and louder still the din, 

As fast from every village round the 
horse came spurring in; 

And eastward straight, for wild Black- 
heath, the warlike errand went; 

And roused, in many an ancient hall, 
the gallant squires of Kent: 

Southward, for Surrey’s pleasant hills, 
flew those bright coursers forth; 

High on black Hampstead’s swarthy 
moor, they started for the north; 

And on, and on, without a pause, un¬ 
tired they bounded still; 

All night from tower to tower they 
sprang, all night from hill to hill; 

Till the proud peak unfurled the flag 
o’er Derwent’s rocky dales; 

Till, like volcanoes, flared to heaven 
the stormy hills of Wales; 

Till, twelve fair counties saw the blaze 
on Malvern’s lonely height; 

Till streamed in crimson, on the wind, 
the Wrekin’s crest of light; 

Till, broad and fierce, the star came 
forth, on Ely’s stately fane, 

And town and hamlet rose in arms, 
o’er all the boundless plain; 


Till Belvoir’s lordly towers the sign 
to Lincoln sent, 

And Lincoln sped the message on, o’er 
the wide vale of Trent; 

Till Skiddaw saw the fire that burnt 
on Gaunt’s embattled pile, 

And the red glare on Skiddaw roused 
the burghers of Carlisle. 

Thomas Babington Macaulay. 


THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN 
MOORE AT CORUNNA, 1809. 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral 
note, 

As his corpse to the rampart we 
hurried; 

Not a soldier discharged his farewell 
shot, 

O’er the grave where our hero we 
buried. 

We buried him darkly, at dead of 
night, 

The sods with our bayonets turn¬ 
ing; 

By the struggling moonbeam’s misty 
light, 

And the lantern dimly burning. 

No useless coffin enclosed his breast, 

Not in sheet nor in shroud we 
wound him; 

But he lay like a warrior taking his 
rest, 

With his martial cloak around him. 

Few and short were the prayers we 
said, 

And we spoke not a word of sorrow; 

But we steadfastly gazed on the face 
that was dead, 

And we bitterly thought of the mor¬ 
row. 


333 


Poems of Patriotism and History 


We thought, as we hollowed his nar¬ 
row bed, 

And smoothed down his lonely 
pillow, 

That the foe and the stranger would 
tread o'er his head, 

And we far away on the billow! 

Lightly they’ll talk of the spirit that’s 
gone, 

And o’er his cold ashes upbraid 
him;— 

But little he’ll reck, if they let him 
sleep on, 

In the grave where a Briton has laid 
him. 

But half of our heavy task was done 

When the clock struck the hour for 
retiring; 

And we heard the distant and random 
gun 

That the foe was sullenly firing. 

Slowly and sadly we laid him down, 

From the field of his fame fresh and 
gory; 

We carved not a line, and we raised 
not a stone— 

But we left him alone with his 
glory! 

Charles Wolfe. 


MY LAND. 

She is a rich and rare land; 

Oh I she's a fresh and fair land, 
She is a dear and rare land— 
This native land of mine. 

No men than hers are braver— 
Her women’s hearts ne’er waver; 
I'd freely die to save her, 

And think my lot divine. 


She’s not a dull or cold land; 

No! she's a warm and bold land; 

Oh! she's a true and old land— 

This native land of mine. 

Could beauty ever guard her, 

And virtue still reward her, 

No foe would cross her border— 

No friend within it pine. 

Oh! she’s a fresh and fair land, 

Oh! she’s a true and rare land! 

Yes, she’s a rare and fair land— 

This native land of mine. 

Thomas Osborne Davis. 

CASABIANCA. 

The boy stood on the burning deck, 
Whence all but him had fled; 

The flame that lit the battle’s wreck, 
Shone round him o’er the dead. 

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, 

As born to rule the storm; 

A creature of heroic blood, 

A proud, though childlike form. 

The flames roll’d on—he would not go 
Without his father's word; 

That father, faint in death below, 

His voice no longer heard. 

He call’d aloud—“Say, father, say 
If yet my task be done! ’ ’ 

He knew not that the chieftain lay 
Unconscious of his son. 

“Speak, father!” once again he cried, 
“ If I may yet be gone! ’ ’ 

And but the booming shots replied, 
And fast the flames roll’d on. 

Upon his brow he felt their breath, 
And in his waving hair; 

And look’d from that lone post of 
death, 

In still, yet brave despair; 


334 


Poems for Children 


And shouted but once more aloud, 
“My father! must I stay?” 

While o’er him fast, through sail and 
shroud, 

The wreathing fires made way. 

They wrapt the ship in splendour 
wild, 

They caught the flag on high, 

And stream’d above the gallant child, 
Like banners in the sky. 

There came a burst of thunder sound— 
The boy—oh! where was he ? 

Ask of the winds that far around 
With fragments strewed the sea, 

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, 
That well had borne their part; 

But the noblest thing that perished 
there 

Was that young faithful heart. 
Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 


TICONDEROGA. 

The cold, gray light of the dawning 
On old Carillon falls, 

And dim in the mist of the morning 
Stand the grim old fortress walls. 
No sound disturbs the stillness 
Save the cataract’s mellow roar, 
Silent as death is the fortress, 

Silent the misty shore. 

But up from the wakening waters 
Comes the cool, fresh morning 
breeze, 

Lifting up the banner of Britain, 

And whispering to the trees 
Of the swift gliding boats on the 
waters 

That are nearing the fog-shrouded 
land, 

With the old Green Mountain Lion, 
And his daring patriot band. 


But the sentinel at the postern 

Heard not the whisper low; 

He is dreaming of the banks of 
Shannon 

As he walks on his beat to and fro, 

Of the starry eyes in Green Erin 

That were dim when he marched 
away, 

And a tear down his bronze cheek 
courses, 

’Tis the first for many a day. 

A sound breaks the misty stillness, 

And quickly he glances around; 

Through the mist, forms like tower¬ 
ing giants 

Seem rising out of the ground; 

A challenge, the firelock flashes, 

A sword cleaves the quivering air, 

And the sentry lies dead by the 
postern, 

Blood staining his bright yellow 
hair. 

Then with a shout that awakens 

All the echoes of the hillside and 
glen, 

Through the low, frowning gate of the 
fortress, 

Sword in hand rush the Green 
Mountain men. 

The scarce wakened troops of the 
garrison 

Yield up their trust pale with fear; 

And down comes the bright British 
banner, 

And out rings a Green Mountain 
cheer. 

Flushed with pride, the whole eastern 
heavens 

With crimson and gold are ablaze; 

And up springs the sun in his splen¬ 
dour 

And flings down his arrowy rays, 


335 


Poems of Patriotism and History 


Bathing in sunlight the fortress, 
Turning to gold the grim walls, 
While louder and clearer and higher 
Rings the song of the waterfalls. 

Since the taking of Ticonderoga 
A century has rolled away; 

But with pride the nation remembers 
That glorious morning in May. 

And the cataract’s silvery music 
Forever the story tells, 

Of the capture of old Carillon, 

The chime of silver bells. 

V. B. Wilson. 


THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 

Op Nelson and the North, 

Sing the glorious day’s renown, 
When to battle fierce came forth 
All the might of Denmark’s crown, 
And her arms along the deep proudly 
shone; 

By each gun the lighted brand, 

In a bold, determined hand, 

And the Prince of all the land 
Led them on. 

Like leviathans afloat, 

Lay their bulwarks on the brine; 
While the sign of battle flew 
On the lofty British line: 

It was ten of April morn by the 
chime; 

As they drifted on their path, 

There was silence deep as death; 

And the boldest held his breath, 

For a time. 

But the might of England flushed 
To anticipate the scene; 

And her van the fleeter rushed 
O’er the deadly space between. 

“Hearts of oak!” our captain cried; 
when each gun 


From its adamantine lips 

Spread a death-shade round the ships, 

Like the hurricane eclipse 

Of the sun. 

Again! again! again! 

And the havoc did not slack, 

Till a feeble cheer the Dane 
To our cheering sent us back; 

Their shots along the deep slowly 
boom: 

Then ceased—and all is wail, 

As they strike the shattered sail; 

Or, in conflagration pale, 

Light the gloom. 

Out spoke the victor then, 

As he hailed them o’er the wave: 

“Ye are brothers! ye are men! 

And we conquer but to save: 

So peace instead of death let us bring; 
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, 

With the crews, at England’s feet, 
And make submission meet 
To our King.” 

Then Denmark blessed our chief, 
That he gave her wounds repose, 

And the sounds of joy and grief 
From her people wildly rose, 

As death withdrew his shades from 
the day. 

While the sun looked smiling bright 
O’er a wide and woeful sight, 

Where the fires of funeral light 
Died away. 

Now joy, old England, raise! 

For the tidings of thy might, 

By the festal cities’ blaze, 

While the wine-cup shines in light; 
And yet amidst that joy and uproar, 
Let us think of them that sleep, 

Full many a fathom deep, 

By thy wild and stormy steep, 
Elsinore! 


33^ Poems for 

Brave hearts! to Britain’s pride 
Once so faithful and so true, 

On the deck of fame that died;— 

With the gallant good Riou: * 

Soft sigh, the winds of heaven o’er 
their grave! 

While the billow mournful rolls, 

And the mermaid’s song condoles, 
Singing glory to the souls 
Of the brave! 

Thomas Campbell. 

WASHINGTON. 

Soldier and statesman, rarest unison; 
High-poised example of great duties 
done 

Simply as breathing, a world’s honors 
worn 

As life’s indifferent gifts to all men 
born; 

Dumb for himself, unless it were to 
God, 

But for his barefoot soldiers eloquent, 
Tramping the snow to corral where 
they trod, 

Held by his awe in hollow-eyed con¬ 
tent ; 

Modest, yet firm as Nature’s self; un¬ 
blamed 

Save by the men his nobler temper 
shamed; 

Never seduced through show of pres¬ 
ent good 

By other than unsettling lights to 
steer 

New-trimmed in Heaven, nor than his 
steadfast mood 

More steadfast, far from rashness as 
from fear; 

Rigid, but with himself first, grasping 
still 

In swerveless poise the wave-beat 
helm of will; 

* Captain Riou, justly entitled the 
gallant and the good by Lord Nelson, 
when he wrote home his dispatches. 


Children 

Not honored then or now because he 
wooed 

The popular voice, but that he still 
withstood; 

Broad-minded, higher-souled, there is 
but one 

Who was all this and ours, and all 
men ’s,—W ashington. 

James Russell Lowell. 


THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT 
BRIGADE. 

Half a league, half a league, 
Half a league onward, 

All in the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 
“Forward, the Light Brigade! 
Charge for the guns! ” he said: 
Into the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 

“Forward the Light Brigade!” 
Was there a man dismay’d? 
Not tho’ the soldier knew 
Some one had blunder’d: 
Theirs not to make reply, 

Theirs not to reason why, 

Theirs but to do and die, 

Into the valley of Death 
Rode the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 

Cannon in front of them 
Volley’d and thunder’d; 
Storm’d at with shot and shell 
Boldly they rode and well, 

Into the jaws of Death, 

Into the mouth of Hell 
Rode the six hundred. 

Flash’d all their sabres bare, 
Flash’d as they turned in air. 
Sabring the gunners there, 


Poems of Patriotism and History 


Charging an army, while 
All the world wonder’d; 
Plunged in the battery-smoke 
Eight thro’ the line they broke; 
Cossack and Russian 
Reel’d from the sabre-stroke 
Shatter’d and sunder’d. 
Then they rode back, but not— 
Not the six hundred. 

Cannon to right of them, 
Cannon to left of them, 

Cannon behind them 

Volley’d and thunder’d; 
Storm’d at with shot and shell, 
While horse and hero fell, 

They that had fought so well 
Came thro’ the jaws of Death. 
Back from the mouth of Hell, 
All that was left of them— 

Left of six hundred. 

When can their glory fade? 

0, the wild charge they made! 

All the world wonder’d. 
Honour the charge they made! 
Honour the Light Brigade, 
Noble six hundred! 

Alfred Tennyson. 


THE EVE OF THE BATTLE OF 
WATERLOO. 

There was a sound of revelry by 
night, 

And'Belgium’s capital had gathered 
then 

Her beauty and her chivalry, and 
bright 

The lamps shone o’er fair women 
and brave men; 

A thousand hearts beat happily, 
and when 

Music arose with its voluptuous 
swell, 


337 

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which 
spake again, 

And all went merry as a marriage 
bell; 

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes 
like a rising knell. 


Did ye not hear it ? No; ’twas but 
the wind, 

Or the car rattling o'er the stony 
street; 

On with the dance, let joy be un¬ 
confined ; 

No sleep till morn, when youth and 
pleasure meet 

To chase the glowing hours with 
flying feet. 

But hark! that heavy sound breaks 
in once more, 

As if the clouds its echo would 
repeat; 

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than 
before! 

Arm! arm! it is—it is—the cannon’s 
opening roar! 


Within a windowed niche of that 
high wall 

Sate Brunswick’s fated chieftain; 
he did hear 

That sound, the first amidst the 
festival, 

And caught its tone with death’s 
prophetic ear; 

And when they smiled because he 
deemed it near 

His heart more truly knew that peal 
too well 

Which stretched his father on a 
bloody bier, 

And roused the vengeance blood 
alone could quell; 

He rushed into the field, and foremost 
fighting fell. 


Poems for Children 


33 8 

Ah! then and there was hurrying to 
and fro, 

And gathering tears, and tremblings 
of distress, 

And cheeks all pale, which but an 
hour ago 

Blushed at the praise of their own 
loveliness; 

And there were sudden partings, 
such as press 

The life from out young hearts, and 
choking sighs 

Which ne’er might be repeated; who 
might guess 

If ever more should meet those 
mutual eyes, 

Since upon night so sweet such awful 
morn could rise? 

\ 

And there was mounting in hot 
haste: the steed, 

The mustering squadron, and the 
clattering car, 

Went pouring forward with im¬ 
petuous speed, 

And swiftly forming in the ranks of 
war; 

And the deep thunder, peal on peal 
afar; 

And near, the beat of the alarming 
drum 

Roused up the soldier ere the morn¬ 
ing star; 

While thronged the citizens with 
terror dumb, 

Or whispering with white lips—‘ ‘ The 
foe! They come! They come! ’ ’ 

And wild and high the “Cameron’s 
gathering” rose, 

The war note of Lochiel, which 
Albyn’s hills 

Have heard, and heard, too, have 
her Saxon foes: 

How in the noon of night that 
pibroch thrills 


Savage and shrill! But with the 
breath which fills 

Their mountain pipe, so fill the 
mountaineers 

With the fierce native daring which 
instils 

The stirring memory of a thousand 
years 

And Evan’s, Donald’s fame rings in 
each clansman’s ears! 

And Ardennes waves about them 
her green leaves, 

Dewy with nature’s tear-drops, as 
they pass, 

Grieving, if aught inanimate e’er 
grieves, 

Over the unreturning brave—alas! 

Ere evening to be trodden like the 
grass 

Which now beneath them, but above 
shall grow 

In its next verdure, when the fiery 
mass 

Of living valour, rolling on the foe, 

And burning with high hope, shall 
moulder cold and low. 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty 
life, 

Last eve in Beauty’s circle proudly 
gay, 

The midnight brought the signal- 
sound of strife, 

The morn the marshalling in arms— 
the day 

Battle’s magnificently stern array! 

The thunder clouds close o’er it, 
which when rent 

The earth is covered thick with 
other clay, 

Which her own clay shall cover, 
heaped and pent, 

Rider and horse—friend, foe—in one 
red burial blent! 

George Gordon Byron. 


Poems of Patriotism and History 339 


THE “REVENGE” 

A Ballad of the Fleet (September, 1501) 

At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard 
Grenville lay, 

And a pinnace, like a fluttered bird, 
came flying from far away: 

‘‘ Spanish ships of war at sea! we have 
sighted fifty-three! ’ ’ 

Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: 

‘ ‘ ’Fore God I am no coward; 

But I cannot meet them here, for my 
ships are out of gear, 

And the half my men are sick. I 
must fly, but follow quick. 

We are six ships of the line; can we 
fight with fifty-three?” 

Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: ‘ ‘ I 
know you are no coward; 

You fly them for a moment to fight 
with them again. 

But I’ve ninety men and more that 
are lying sick ashore. 

I should count myself the coward if I 
left them, my Lord Howard, 

To these Inquisition dogs and the 
devildoms of Spain.” 

So Lord Howard passed away with 
five ships of war that day, 

Till he melted like a cloud in the silent 
summer heaven; 

But Sir Richard bore in hand all his 
sick men from the land 
Very carefully and slow, 

Men of Bideford in Devon, 

And we laid them on the ballast down 
below; 

For we brought them all aboard, 

And they blessed him in their pain, 
that they were not left to Spain, 
To the thumbscrew and the stake, for 
the glory of the Lord. 

He had only a hundred seamen to 
work the ship and to fight, 


And he sailed away from Flores till 
the Spaniard came in sight, 

With his huge sea-castles heaving 
upon the weather bow. 

“Shall we fight or shall we fly? 

Good Sir Richard, tell us now, 

For to fight is but to die! 

There’ll be little of us left by the time 
this sun be set.” 

And Sir Richard said again: “We be 
all good English men. 

Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the 
children of the devil, 

For I never turned my back upon Don 
or devil yet.” 

Sir Richard spoke and he laughed, 
and we roared a hurrah, and so 
The little Revenge ran on sheer into 
the heart of the foe, 

With her hundred fighters on deck, 
and her ninety sick below; 

For half of their fleet to the right and 
half to the left were seen, 

And the little Revenge ran on through 
the long sea-lane between. 

Thousands of their soldiers looked 
down from their decks and 
laughed, 

Thousands of their seamen made mock 
at the mad little craft 
Running on and on, till delayed 
By their mountain-like San Philip 
that, of fifteen hundred tons, 

And up-shadowing high above us with 
her yawning tiers of guns, 

Took the breath from our sails, and we 
stayed. 

And while now the great San Philip 
hung above us like a cloud 
Whence the thunderbolt will fall 
Long and loud, 

Four galleons drew away 
From the Spanish fleet that day, 


34° Poems for Children 


And two upon tlie larboard and two 
upon starboard lay, 

And the battle-thunder broke from 
them all. 


But anon the great San Philip, she be¬ 
thought herself and went, 

Having that within her womb that 
had left her ill content; 

And the rest, they came aboard us, 
and they fought us hand to hand, 
For a dozen times they came with 
their pikes and musqueteers, 

And a dozen times we shook ’em off as 
a dog that shakes his ears 
When he leaps from the water to the 
land. 

And the sun went down, and the stars 
came out far over the summer sea, 
But never a moment ceased the fight 
of the one and the fifty-three, 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, 
their high-built galleons came, 
Ship after ship, the whole night long, 
drew back with her dead and her 
shame. 

For some were sunk and many were 
shattered, and so could fight us 
no more— 

God of battles, was ever a battle like 
this in the world before ? 


For he said, “Fight on! fight on!” 
Though his vessel was all but a wreck; 
And it chanced that, when half of the 
short summer night was gone, 
With a grisly wound to be dressed he 
had left the deck, 

But a bullet struck him that was dress¬ 
ing it suddenly dead, 

And himself he was wounded again in 
the side and the head, 

And he said, “ Fight on! fight on! ” 


And the night went down, and the sun 
smiled out far over the summer 
sea, 

And the Spanish fleet with broken 
sides lay round us all in a ring; 
But they dared not touch us again, for 
they feared that we still could 
sting, 

So they watched what the end would 
be. 

And we had not fought them in vain, 
But in perilous plight were we, 

Seeing forty of our poor hundred were 
slain, 

And half of the rest of us maimed for 
life 

In the crash of the cannonades and 
the desperate strife; 

And the sick men down in the hold 
were most of them stark and cold, 
And the pikes were all broken or bent, 
and the powder was all of it spent; 
And the masts and the rigging were 
lying over the side; 

But Sir Richard cried in his English 
pride, 

“We have fought such a fight for a 
day and a night 
As may never be fought again! 

We have won great glory, my men! 
And a day less or more 
At sea or ashore, 

We die—does it matter when? 

Sink me the ship, Master Gunner— 
sink her, split her in twain! 

Fall into the hands of God, not into 
the hands of Spain!” 

And the gunner said, “Ay, ay,” but 
the seamen made reply: 

“We have children, we have wives, 
And the Lord hath spared our lives. 
We will make the Spaniard promise, 
if we yield, to let us go; 

We shall live to fight again and to 
strike another blow.” 


Poems of Patriotism and History 34 1 


And the lion there lay dying, and they 
yielded to the foe. 


And the stately Spanish men to their 
flagship bore him then, 

Where they laid him by the mast, old 
Sir Richard caught at last, 

And they praised him to his face with 
their courtly foreign grace; 

But he rose upon their decks, and he 
cried: 

“I have fought for Queen and Faith 
like a valiant man and true; 

I have only done my duty as a man is 
bound to do. 

With a joyful spirit I Sir Richard 
Grenville die!” 

And he fell upon their decks, and he 
died. 


And they stared at the dead that had 
been so valiant and true, 

And had holden the power and glory 
of Spain so cheap 

That he dared her with one little ship 
and his English few; 

Was he devil or man? He was devil 
for aught they knew, 

But they sank his body with honour 
down into the deep, 

And they manned the Revenge with a 
swarthier alien crew, 

And away she sailed with her loss and 
longed for her own; 

When a wind from the lands they had 
ruined awoke from sleep, 

And the water began to heave and the 
weather to moan, 

And or ever that evening ended a 
great gale blew, 

And a wave like the wave that is 
raised by an earthquake grew, 
Till it smote on their hulls and their 
sails and their masts and their 
flags, 


And the whole sea plunged and fell on 
the shot-shattered navy of Spain, 
And the little Revenge herself went 
down by the island crags 
To be lost evermore in the main. 

Alfred Tennyson . 


THE BLUEBELLS OF SCOTLAND. 

Oh where! and oh where! is your 
Highland laddie gone? 

He’s gone to fight the French for 
King George upon the throne; 

And it’s oh! in my heart how I wish 
him safe at home. 

Oh where! and oh where! does your 
Highland laddie dwell? 

He dwells in merry Scotland at the 
sign of the Bluebell; 

And it’s oh! in my heart that I love 
my laddie well. 

What clothes, in what clothes is your 
Highland laddie clad? 

His bonnet’s of the Saxon green, his 
waistcoat’s of the plaid; 

And it’s oh! in my heart that I love 
my Highland lad. 

Suppose, oh suppose, that your High¬ 
land lad should die? 

The bagpipes shall play over him, I’ll 
lay me down and cry; 

And it’s oh! in my heart that I wish 
he may not die! 

Unknown. 


KEARNY AT SEVEN PINES. 

(May 31, 1862) 

So that soldierly legend is still on its 
journey,— 

That story of Kearny who knew not 
to yield! 


342 


Poems for Children 


Twas the day when with Jameson, 
fierce Berry, and Birney, 

Against twenty thousand lie rallied 
the field. 

Where the red volleys poured, where 
the clamor rose highest, 

Where the dead lay in clumps 
through the dwarf oak and pine, 

Where the aim from the thicket was 
surest and nighest,— 

No charge like Phil Kearny’s along 
the whole line. 

When the battle went ill, and the 
bravest were solemn, 

Near the dark Seven Pines, where 
we still held our ground, 

He rode down the length of the 
withering column, 

And his heart at our war-cry leapt 
up with a bound; 

He snuffed, like his charger, the wind 
of the powder,— 

His sword waved us on and we an¬ 
swered the sign; 

Loud our cheer as we rushed, but his 
laugh rang the louder, 

‘ ‘ There’s the devil’s own fun, boys, 
along the whole line! ’ ’ 

How he strode his brown steed! How 
we saw his blade brighten 
In the one hand still left,—and the 
reins in his teeth! 

He laughed like a boy when the holi¬ 
days heighten, 

But a soldier’s glance shot from his 
visor beneath. 

Up came the reserves to the mellay 
infernal, 

Asking where to go in,—through 
the clearing or pine? 

Oh, anywhere! Forward! ’Tis all 
the same, Colonel: 

You’ll find lovely fighting along the 
whole line! ’ ’ 


Oh, evil the black shroud of night at 
Chantilly, 

That hid him from sight of his 
brave men and tried! 

Foul, foul sped the bullet that clipped 
the white lily, 

The flower of our knighthood, the 
whole army’s pride! 

Yet we dream that he still,—in that 
shadowy region 

Where the dead form their ranks at 
the wan drummer’s sign,— 

Bides on, as of old, down the length 
of his legion, 

And the word still is “Forward!” 
along the whole line. 

Edmund Clarence Stedman. 


BRUCE TO HIS ARMY. 

Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has often led; 
Welcome to your gory bed, 

Or to victory! 

Now’s the day, and now’s the hour, 
See the front of battle lower; 

See approach proud Edward’s power, 
Chains and slavery! 

Wha will be a traitor knave ? 

Wha can fill a coward’s grave ? 

Wha sae base as be a slave ? 

Let him turn and flee! 

Wha for Scotland’s king and law, 
Freedom’s sword wouldistrongly draw, 
Freeman stand or freeman fa’, 

Let him follow me! 

By oppression’s woes and pains, 

By your sons in servile chains, 

We will drain our dearest veins, 

But they shall be free! 


Poems of Patriotism and History 


343 


Lay the proud usurper low! 
Tyrants fall in every foe! 

Liberty’s in every blow! 

Let us do, or die! 

Robert Burns. 


MY HEART’S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart 
is not here; 

My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing 
the deer; 

Chasing the wild deer, and following 
the roe, 

My heart’s in the Highlands wherever 
I go. 

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to 
the North, 

The birthplace of valour, the country 
of worth; 

Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, 

The hills of the Highlands for ever I 
love. 

Farewell to the mountains high cov¬ 
ered with snow; 

Farewell to the straths and green 
valleys below; 

Farewell to the forests and wild-hang¬ 
ing woods; 

Farewell to the torrents and loud- 
pouring floods. 

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart 
is not here; 

My heart’s in the Highlands, a-chas¬ 
ing the deer; 

Chasing the wild deer, and following 
the roe, 

My heart’s in the Highlands wherever 
I go! 

Robert Burns. 


“THE WORD OF GOD TO 
LEYDEN CAME.” 

(August 15, 1620) 

The word of God to Leyden came, 
Dutch town by Zuyder Zee: 

Rise up, my children of no name, 

My kings and priests to be. 

There is an empire in the West, 
Which I will soon unfold; 

A thousand harvests in her breast, 
Rocks ribbed with iron and gold. 

Rise up, my children, time is ripe! 

Old things are passed away. 
Bishops and kings from earth I wipe; 

Too long they’ve had their da} r . 

A little ship have I prepared 
To bear you o’er the seas; 

And in your souls, my will declared, 
Shall grow by slow degrees. 

Beneath my throne the martyrs cry: 

I hear their voice, How long? 

It mingles with their praises high, 
And with their victor song. 

The thing they longed and waited for, 
But died without the sight; 

So, this shall be! I wrong abhor, 

The world I ’ll now set right. 

Leave, then, the hammer and the loom, 
You’ve other work to do; 

For Freedom’s commonwealth there’s 
room, 

And you shall build it too. 

I’m tired of bishops and their pride, 

I’m tired of kings as well; 
Henceforth I take the people’s side, 
And with the people dwell. 

Tear off the mitre from the priest, 
And from the king, his crown; 

Let all my captives be released; 

Lift up, whom men cast down. 


3+4 


Poems for Children 


Their pastors let the people choose, 
And choose their rulers too; 

Whom they select, I ’ll not refuse, 

But bless the work they do. 

The Pilgrims rose, at this, God’s word, 
And sailed the wintry seas: 

With their own flesh nor blood con¬ 
ferred, 

Nor thought of wealth or ease. 

They left the towers of Leyden town, 
They left the Zuyder Zee; 

And where they cast their anchor 
down, 

Rose Freedom’s realm to be. 

Jeremiah Eames Rankin. 

THE LANDING OF THE PILGRIM 
FATHERS. 

The breaking waves dashed high 
On a stern and rock-bound coast, 
And the woods against a stormy sky 
Their giant branches tossed. 

And the heavy night hung dark 
The hills and waters o ’er, 

When a band of exiles moored their 
bark 

On the wild New England shore. 

Not as the conqueror comes, 

They, the true-hearted, came, 

Not with the roll of stirring drums, 
And the trumpet that sings of fame; 

Not as the flying come, 

In silence and in fear,— 

They shook the depths of the desert’s 
gloom 

With their hymns of lofty cheer. 

Amidst the storm they sang, 

And the stars heard and the sea! 
And the sounding aisles of the dim 
wood rang 

To the anthems of the free! 


The ocean-eagle soared 
From his nest by the white waves’ 
foam, 

And the rocking pines of the forest 
roared,— 

This was their welcome home! 

There were men with hoary hair 
Amidst that pilgrim-band; 

Why had they come to wither there, 
Away from their childhood’s land! 

There was woman’s fearless eye, 

Lit by her deep love’s truth; 

There was manhood’s brow serenely 
high, 

And the fiery heart of youth. 

What sought they thus afar ? 

Bright jewels of the mine? 

The wealth of seas, the spoils of war ? 
They sought a faith’s pure shrine! 

Ay, call it holy ground, 

The soil where first they trod! 

They have left unstained what there 
they found,— 

Freedom to worship God! 

Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 


POCAHONTAS. 

Wearied arm and broken sword 
Wage in vain the desperate fight: 
Round him press a countless horde, 
He is but a single knight. 

Hark a cry of triumph shrill 

Through the wilderness resounds, 
As with twenty bleeding wounds 
Sinks the warrior fighting still. 

Now they heap the fatal pyre, 

And the torch of death they light; 
Ah! ’tis hard to die of fire ! 

Who will shield the captive knight ? 


345 


Poems of Patriotism and History 


Round the stake with fiendish cry 
Wheel and dance the savage crowd, 
Cold the victim’s mien and proud, 
And his breast is bared to die. 

Who will shield the fearless heart ? 

Who avert the murderous blade ? 
From the throng, with sudden start, 
See there springs an Indian maid. 
Quick she stands before the knight: 
“Loose the chain, unbind the ring; 
I am daughter of the king, 

And I claim the Indian right! ” 

Dauntlessly aside she flings 
Lifted axe and thirsty knife; 
Fondly to his heart she clings, 

And her bosom guards his life! 

In the woods of Powhatan, 

Still ’tis told by Indian fires, 

How a daughter of their sires 
Saved the captive Englishman. 

William Makepeace Thackeray . 


INDIAN NAMES. 

Ye say they all have passed away, 
That noble race and brave; 

That their light canoes have vanished 
From off the crested wave; 

That, mid the forests where they 
roamed, 

There rings no hunter’s shout; 

But their name is on your waters, 

Ye may not wash it out. 

’Tis where Ontario’s billow 
Like ocean’s surge is curled, 

Where strong Niagara’s thunders 
wake 

The echo of the world, 

Where red Missouri bringeth 
Rich tribute from the west, 

And Rappahannock sweetly sleeps 
On green Virginia’s breast. 


Ye say their conelike cabins, 

That clustered o’er the vale, 

Have disappeared, as withered leaves 
Before the autumn’s gale; 

But their memory liveth on your hills, 
Their baptism on your shore, 

Your everlasting rivers speak 
Their dialect of yore. 

Old Massachusetts wears it 
Within her lordly crown, 

And broad Ohio bears it 
Amid his young renown. 
Connecticut hath wreathed it 
Where her quiet foliage waves, 

And bold Kentucky breathes it hoarse 
Through all her ancient caves. 

Wachusett hides its lingering voice 
Within its rocky heart, 

And Alleghany graves its tone 
Throughout his lofty chart. 
Monadnock, on his forehead hoar, 
Doth seal the sacred trust, 

Your mountains build their monu¬ 
ment, 

Though ye destroy their dust. 

Lydia Huntly Sigourney. 

“ THE STAR-SPANGLED 
BANNER.” 

Oh say, can you see by the dawn’s 
early light, 

What so proudly we hailed at the 
twilight’s last gleaming? 

Whose broad stripes and bright stars, 
through the perilous fight 
On the ramparts we watched, were 
so gallantly streaming. 

And the rocket’s red glare, the bombs 
bursting in air, 

Cave proof through the night that 
our flag was still there; 

Oh say, does the star-spangled ban¬ 
ner yet wave 

O’er the land of the free and the 
home of the brave? 


Poems for Children 


34& 

On the shore dimly seen, through the 
mists of the deep, 

Where the foe’s haughty host in 
dread silence reposes, 

What is that which the breeze o’er 
the towering steep, 

As it fitfully blows, half conceals, 
half discloses? 

Now it catches the gleam of the morn¬ 
ing’s first beam: 

In full glory reflected, now shines 
on the stream; 

’Tis the star-spangled banner, 0 
long may it wave 

O’er the land of the free and the 
home of the brave. 

And where is that band who so vaunt- 
in gly swore 

That the havoc of war and the 
battle’s confusion 

A home and a country should leave us 
no more ? 

Their blood has washed out their 
foul footsteps’ pollution. 

No refuge could save the hireling and 
slave 

From the terror of flight, or the gloom 
of the grave: 

And the star-spangled banner in 
triumph doth wave 

O’er the land of the free and the 
home of the brave! 

Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen 
shall stand 

Between their loved homes and the 
war’s desolation! 

Blest with victory and peace, may the 
heaven-rescued land 

Praise the Power that hath made 
and preserved us a nation. 

Then conquer we must, for our cause 
it is just, 

And this be our motto: “In God is 
our trust.” 


And the star-spangled banner in 
triumph shall wave 
O’er the land of the free and the 
home of the brave! 

Francis Scott Key. 

THE AMERICAN FLAG. 

When freedom, from her mountain 
height 

Unfurl’d her standard to the air, 
She tore the azure robe of night, 

And set the stars of glory there. 
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes 
The milky baldric of the skies, 

And striped its pure, celestial white, 
With streakings of the morning light ; 
Then from his mansion in the sun 
She call’d her eagle bearer down; 

And gave into his mighty hand 
The symbol of her chosen land. 
*##### 

Flag of the seas! on ocean wave 
Thy stars shall glitter o’er the brave; 
When death, careering on the gale, 
Sweeps darkly round the bellied sail, 
And frighted waves rush wildly back 
Before the broadside’s reeling rack, 
Each dying wanderer of the sea 
Shall look at once to heaven and thee, 
And smile to see thy splendours fly 
In triumph o’er his closing eye. 

Flag of the free heart’s hope and 
home! 

By angel hands to valour given; 
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome, 
And all thy hues were born in 
heaven. 

For ever float that standard sheet! 
Where breathes the foe but falls 
before us, 

With freedom’s soil beneath our feet 
And freedom’s banner streaming 
o’er us? 

Joseph Rodman Brahe. 


Poems of Patriotism and History 347 


CONCORD HYMN. 

Sung at the Completion of the Battle 
Monument, April 19, 1836. 

By the rude bridge that arched the 
flood, 

Their flag to April’s breeze un¬ 
furled, 

Here once the embattled farmers 
stood, 

And fired the shot heard round the 
world. 

The foe long since in silence slept; 

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps; 
And Time the ruined bridge has swept 
Down the dark stream which sea¬ 
ward creeps. 

On this green bank, by this soft 
stream, 

We set to-day a votive stone; 

That memory may their deed redeem, 
When, like our sires, our sons are 
gone. 

Spirit, that made those heroes dare 
To die, and leave their children free, 
Bid Time and Nature gently spare 
The shaft we raise to them and thee. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson . 

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN! 

0 Captain ! my Captain! our fearful 
trip is done, 

The ship has weather’d every rack, the 
prize we sought is won, 

The port is near, the bells I hear, the 
people all exulting, 

While follow eyes the steady keel, the 
vessel grim and daring; 

But 0 heart! heart! heart! 

0 the bleeding drops of red, 
Where on the deck my Captain 
lies, 

Fallen cold and dead. 


O Captain! my Captain! rise up and 
hear the bells: 

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for 
you the bugle trills, 

For you bouquets and ribbon’d 
wreaths—for you the shores a-crowd- 
ing, 

For you they call, the swaying mass, 
their eager faces turning; 

Here, Captain! dear father! 

This arm beneath your head! 
It is some dream that on the deck 
You’ve fallen cold and dead. 

My Captain does not ansAver, his lips 
are pale and still, 

My father does not feel my arm, he 
has no pulse nor will, 

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, 
its voyage closed and done, 

From fearful trip the victor ship 
comes in with object won; 

Exult 0 shores! and ring,0 bells! 

But I with mournful tread, 
Walk the deck my Captain lies, 
Fallen cold and dead. 

Walt Whitman. 


AMERICA. 

My country, ’tis of thee, 
Sweet land of liberty, 

Of thee I sing; 

Land where my fathers died, 
Land of the pilgrims’ pride, 
From every mountain-side 
Let Freedom ring. 

My native country, thee, 
Land of the noble free,— 

Thy name I love; 

I love thy rocks and rills, 

Thy woods and templed hills; 
My heart with rapture thrills 
Like that above. 


Poems for Children 


348 

Let music swell the breeze, 
And ring from all the trees 
Sweet Freedom’s song; 
Let mortal tongues awake, 

Let all that breathe partake, 
Let rocks their silence break,— 
The sound prolong. 

Our fathers’ God, to Thee, 
Author of liberty, 

To Thee we sing; 

Long may our land be bright 
With Freedom’s holy light; 
Protect us by Thy might, 

Great God, our King. 

Samuel Francis Smith. 


BATTLE-HYMN OF THE 
REPUBLIC. 

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the 
coming of the Lord; 

He is trampling out the vintage where 
the grapes of wrath are stored; 

He hath loosed the fateful lightning of 
His terrible swift sword; 

His truth is marching on. 

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of 
a hundred circling camps; 

They have builded Him an altar in the 
evening dews and damps; 

I can read His righteous sentence by 
the dim and flaring lamps; 

His day is marching on. 

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in 
burnished rows of steel: 

“As ye deal with my contemners, so 
with you my grace shall deal; 

Let the Hero, born of woman, crush 
the serpent with his heel, 

Since God is marching on.” 


He has sounded forth the trumpet 
that shall never call retreat; 

He is sifting out the hearts of men 
before His judgment-seat: 

Oh, be swift, my soul, to answer Him! 
be jubilant, my feet! 

Our God is marching on. 

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was 
born across the sea, 

With a glory in His bosom that trans¬ 
figures you and me: 

As He died to make men holy, let us 
die to make men free, 

While God is marching on. 

Julia Ward Howe. 

BONNIE DUNDEE. 

From “ The Doom of Devoirgoil ” 
(1689) 

To the Lords of Convention ’twas 
Claver’se who spoke, 

“Ere the King’s crown shall fall, 
there are crowns to be broke; 

So let each Cavalier who loves 
honour and me 

Come follow the bonnet of Bonnie 
Dundee! 

6i Come fill up my cup, come fill up 
my can, 

Come saddle your horses, and call 
up your men; 

Come open the West Port and let 
me gang free, 

And it’s room for the bonnets of 
Bonnie Dundee!” 

Dundee he is mounted, he rides up 
the street, 

The bells are rung backward, the 
drums they are beat; 

But the Provost, douce man, said, 
“Just e’en let him be, 

The Gude Town is well quit of that 
deil of Dundee! ’ ’ 


Poems of Patriotism and History 


As he rode doun the sanctified 
bends of the Bow, 

Ilk carline was flyting and shaking 
her pow; 

But the young plants of grace they 
looked couthie and slee, 
Thinking, Luck to thy bonnet, thou 
Bonnie Dundee! 


With sour-featured Whigs the 
Grass-market was thranged, 

As if half the West had set tryst 
to be hanged; 

There was spite in each look, there 
was fear in each e’e, 

As they watched for the bonnets of 
Bonnie Dundee. 

These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits 
and had spears, 

And lang-hafted gullies to kill 
cavaliers; 

But they shrunk to close-heads, and 
the causeway was free 

At the toss of the bonnet of Bonnie 
Dundee. 

He spurred to the foot of the proud 
Castle rock, 

And with the gay Gordon he gal¬ 
lantly spoke: 

“Let Mons Meg and her marrows 
speak twa words or three, 

For the love of the bonnet of Bonnie 
Dundee. ’ ’ 

The Gordon demands of him which 
way he goes. 

‘Where’er shall direct me the shade 
of Montrose! 

Your Grace in short space shall hear 
tidings of me, 

Or that low lies the bonnet of Bon¬ 
nie Dundee. 


349 

“There are hills beyond Pentland, 
and lands beyond Forth; 

If there’s lords in the Lowlands, 
there’s chiefs in the North; 
There are wild Duniewassals three 
thousand times three 
Will cry ‘ Hoigh!’ for the bonnet of 
Bonnie Dundee. 

“There’s brass on the target of 
barkened bull-hide, 

There’s steel in the scabbard that 
dangles beside; 

The brass shall be burnished, the 
steel shall flash free, 

At a toss of the bonnet of Bonnie 
Dundee. 

“Away to the hills, to the caves, to 
the rocks,— 

Ere I own an usurper, I’ll couch 
with the fox; 

And tremble, false Whigs, in the 
midst of your glee, 

You have not seen the last of my 
bonnet and me! ’ ’ 

He waved his proud hand, and the 
trumpets were blown, 

The kettle-drums clashed, and the 
horsemen rode on, 

Till on Ravelston’s cliffs and on 
Clermiston’s lea 

Died away the wild war-notes of 
Bonnie Dundee. 

Walter Scott. 


THE BATTLE OF HOHEN- 
LINDEN. 

On Linden, when the sun was low, 

All bloodless lay the untrodden snow; 
And dark as winter was the flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 


Poems for Children 


35o 

But Linden show’d another sight, 
When the drum beat at dead of night, 
Commanding fires of death to light 
The darkness of her scenery. 

By torch and trumpet fast array’d 
Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 
And furious every charger neigh’d, 
To join the dreadful revelry. 

Then shook the hills, with thunder 
riven; 

Then rush’d the steed to battle'driven; 
And, louder than the bolts of heaven, 
Far flash’d the red artillery. 

But redder yet that light shall glow, 
On Linden’s hills of stained snow; 
And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 

’Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun 
Can pierce the war-cloud rolling dun, 
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun 
Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 

The combat deepens. On, ye brave! 
Who rush to glory or the grave! 
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave! 
And charge with all thy chivalry! 

Few, few shall part where many meet! 
The snow shall be their winding-sheet, 
And every turf beneath their feet 
Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre! 

Thomas Campbell. 


MOLLY MAGUIRE AT 
MONMOUTH. 

On the bloody field of Monmouth 
Flashed the guns of Greene and 
Wayne. 

Fiercely roared the tide of battle, 
Thick the sward was heaped with 
slain. 


Foremost, facing death and danger, 
Hessian, horse, and grenadier, 

In the vanguard, fiercely fighting, 
Stood an Irish Cannonier. 

Loudly roared his iron cannon, 
Mingling ever in the strife, 

And beside him, firm and daring, 
Stood his faithful Irish wife. 

Of her bold contempt of danger 
Greene and Lee’s Brigades could 
tell, 

Every one knew “Captain Molly,” 
And the army loved her well. 

Surged the roar of battle round them, 
Swiftly flew the iron hail, 

Forward dashed a thousand bayonets, 
That lone battery to assail. 

From the foeman’s foremost columns 
Swept a furious fusillade, 

Mowing down the massed battalions 
In the ranks of Greene’s Brigade. 

Fast and faster worked the gunner, 
Soiled; with powder, blood, and dust, 

English bayonets shone before him, 
Shot and shell around him burst; 

Still he fought with reckless daring, 
Stood and manned her long and 
well, 

Till at last the gallant fellow 
Dead—beside his cannon fell. 

With a bitter cry of sorrow, 

And a dark and angry frown, 

Looked that band of gallant patriots 
At their gunner stricken down. 

“Fall back, comrades, it is folly 
Thus to strive against the foe.” 

“No! not so,” cried Irish Molly; 
“We can strike another blow.” 

* -Y- .v- 4*. „y. 4*. 

W W •7V* w w 

Quickly leapt she to the cannon, 

In her fallen husband’s place, 
Sponged and rammed it fast and 
steady, 

Fired it in the foeman’s face. 


Poems of Patriotism and History 351 


Flashed another ringing volley, 
Roared another from the gun; 
“Boys, hurrah!” cried gallant Molly, 
“For the flag of Washington!” 


Greene’s brigade, though shorn and 
shattered, 

Slain and bleeding half their men, 
When they heard that Irish slogan, 
Turned and charged the foe again. 
Knox and Wayne and Morgan rally, 

To the front they forward wheel, 
And before their rushing onset 
Clinton’s English columns reel. 

Still the cannon’s voice in anger 
Rolled and rattled o’er the plain, 
Till there lay in swarms around it 
Mangled heaps of Hessian slain. 
“Forward! charge them with the 
bayonet! ’ ’ 

’Twas the voice of Washington, 

And there burst a fiery greeting 
From the Irish woman’s gun. 

Monckton falls; against his columns 
Leap the troops of Wayne and Lee, 
And before their reeking bayonets 
Clinton’s red battalions flee. 
Morgan’s rifles, fiercely flashing, 

Thin the foe’s retreating ranks, 
And behind them onward dashing 
Ogden hovers on their flanks. 

Fast they fly, these boasting Britons, 
Who in all their glory came, 

With their brutal Hessian hirelings 
To wipe out our country’s name. 
Proudly floats the starry banner, 
Monmouth’s glorious field is won, 
And in triumph Irish Molly 
Stands beside her smoking gun. 

William Collins. 


INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH 
CAMP. 

You know, we French stormed Ratis- 
bon: 

A mile or so away 
On a little mound, Napoleon 
Stood on our storming day; 

With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, 
Legs wide, arms locked behind, 

As if to balance the prone brow 
Oppressive with its mind. 

Just as, perhaps, he mused, “My plans 
That soar, to earth may fall, 

Let once my army-leader Lannes 
Waver at yonder wall,”— 

Out ’twixt the battery-smokes there 
flew 

A rider, bound on bound 
Full-galloping; nor bridle drew 
Until he reached the mound. 

Then off there flung in smiling joy, 
And held himself erect 
By just his horse’s mane, a boy: 

You hardly could suspect— 

(So tight he kept his lips compressed, 
Scarce any blood came through), 
You looked twice ere you saw his 
breast 

Was all but shot in two. 

“Well,” cried he, “Emperor, by 
God’s grace 

We’ve got you Ratisbon! 

The Marshal’s in the market-place, 
And you ’ll be there anon 
To see your flag-bird flap his vans, 
Where I, to heart’s desire, 

Perched him! ’ ’ The Chief’s eye 
flashed; his plans 
Soared up again like fire. 

The Chief’s eye flashed; but presently 
Softened itself, as sheathes 
A film the mother eagle’s eye 

When her bruised eaglet breathes: 


Poems for Children 


352 

“You’re wounded!” “Nay,” his 
soldier’s pride 

Touched to the quick, he said: 

“I’m killed, sire!” And, his Chief 
beside, 

Smiling the boy fell dead. 

Robert Browning . 


THE MINSTREL-BOY. 

The Minstrel-boy to the war is gone, 

I 11 the ranks of death you’ll find 
him; 

His father’s sword he has girded on, 
And his wild harp slung behind him, 

“Land of song!” said the warrior- 
bard, 

‘ * Though all the world betrays thee, 

One sword, at least, thy rights shall 
guard, 

One faithful harp shall praise 
thee! ’ ’ 

The Minstrel fell!—but the foeman’s 
chain 

Could not bring his proud soul un¬ 
der ; 

The harp he loved ne’er spoke again, 
For he tore its chords asunder; 

And said, “No chains shall sully thee, 
Thou soul of love and bravery! 

Thy songs were made for the pure and 
free, 

They shall never sound in slavery! ’ ’ 

Thomas Moore. 


THE SPLENDOUR FALLS ON 
CASTLE WALLS. 

The splendour falls on castle walls 
And snowy summits old in story: 
The long light shakes across the 
lakes 

And the wild cataract leaps in 
glory. 


Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes 
flying, 

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, 
dying, dying. 

0 hark, 0 hear! how thin and clear, 
And thinner, clearer, farther 
going! 

0 sweet and far from cliff and scar 
The horns of Elfland faintly 
blowing! 

Blow, let us hear the purple glens 
replying: 

Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, 
dying, dying. 

O love, they die in yon rich sky, 
They faint on hill or field or river: 

Our echoes roll from soul to soul, 
And grow for ever and for ever. 

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes 
flying, 

And answer, echoes, answer, dying, 
dying, dying. 

Alfred Tennyson . 

HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD 

NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX. 

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and 
he; 

I galloped, Dirck galloped, we gal¬ 
loped all three; 

“Good speed!” cried the watch, as 
the gate-bolts undrew; 

“Speed!” echoed the wall to us gal¬ 
loping through; 

Behind shut the postern, the lights 
sank to rest, 

And into the midnight we galloped 
abreast. 

Not a word to each other; we kept 
the great pace 

Neck by neck, stride by stride, never 
changing our place; 


Poems of Patriotism and History 353 


I turned in my saddle and made its 
girths tight, 

Then shortened each stirrup, and set 
the pique right, 

Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained 
slacker the bit, 

Nor galloped less steadily Roland a 
whit. 

’Twas moonset at starting; but while 
we drew near 

Lokeren, the cocks crew, and twilight 
dawned clear; 

At Boom, a great yellow star came out 
to see; 

At Driffield, ’twas morning as plain as 
could be; 

And from Mecheln church-steeple we 
heard the half chime, 

So Joris broke silence with “ Yet there 
is time! ’ ’ 

At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden 
the sun, 

And against him the cattle stood black 
every one, 

To stare through the mist at us gallop¬ 
ing past, 

And I saw my stout galloper Roland 
at last, 

With resolute shoulders, each butting 
away 

The haze, as some bluff river headland 
its spray: 

And his low head and crest, just one 
sharp ear bent back 

For my voice and the other pricked 
out on his track; 

And one eye’s black intelligence—ever 
that glance 

O’er its white edge at me, his own 
master, askance! 

And the thick heavy spume-flakes 
which aye and anon 

His fierce lips shook upwards in gal¬ 
loping on. 


By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried 
Joris, “Stay spur! 

Your Ross galloped bravely, the fault’s 
not in her. 

We’ll remember at Aix”—for one 
heard the quick wheeze 

Of her chest, saw her stretched neck 
and staggering knees, 

And sunk tail, and horrible heave of 
the flank, 

As down on her haunches she shud¬ 
dered and sank. 

So we were left galloping, Joris and I, 

Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud 
in the sky; 

The broad sun above laughed a piti¬ 
less laugh, 

’Neath our feet broke the brittle 
bright stubble like chaff; 

Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire 
sprang white, 

And “Gallop,” gasped Joris, “for 
Aix is in sight! ’ ’ 

“How they’ll greet us!” and all in a 
moment his roan 

Rolled neck and crop over; lay dead 
as a stone; 

And there was my Roland to bear the 
whole weight 

Of the news which alone could save 
Aix from her fate, 

With his nostrils like pits full of 
blood to the brim, 

And with circles of red for his eye- 
socket’s rim. 

Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each 
holster let fall. 

Shook off both my jack-boots, let go 
belt and all, 

Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted 
his ear, 

Called my Roland his pet-name, my 
horse without peer; 


Poems for Children 


354 

Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, 
any noise, good or bad, 

Till at length into Aix Roland gal¬ 
loped and stood. 

And all I remember is, friends flock¬ 
ing round 

As I sat with his head ’twixt my knees 
on the ground, 

And no voice but was praising this 
Roland of mine, 

As I poured down his throat our last 
measure of wine, 

Which (the burgesses voted by com¬ 
mon consent) 

Was no more than his due avIio 
brought good news from Ghent. 

Robert Browning. 

MONTEREY. 

(September 23, 1846) 

We were not many, we who stood 
Before the iron sleet that day: 

Yet many a gallant spirit would 

Give half his years if but he could 
Have been with us at Monterey. 

Now here, now there, the shot it hailed 
In deadly drifts of fiery spray, 

Yet not a single soldier quailed 

When wounded comrades round them 
wailed 

Their dying shout at Monterey. 

And on—still on our column kept 
Through walls of flame its wither¬ 
ing way; 

Where fell the dead, the living 
stepped, 

Still charging on the guns which 
swept 

The slippery streets of Monterey. 


The foe himself recoiled aghast, 
When, striking where he strongest 
lay, 

We swooped his flanking batteries 
past, 

And braving full their murderous 
blast, 

Stormed home the towers of Mon¬ 
terey. 

Our banners on those turrets wave, 
And there our evening bugles play: 

Where orange-boughs above their 
grave 

Keep green the memory of the brave 
Who fought and fell at Monterey. 

We are not many—we who pressed 
Beside the brave who fell that 
day— 

But who of us has not confessed 

He’d rather share their warrior rest 
Than not have been at Monterey? 

Charles Fenno Hoffman. 


THE SEA. 

The sea! the sea! the open sea! 

The blue, the fresh, the ever free! 

Without a mark, without a bound, 

It runneth the earth’s wide regions 
round; 

It plays with the clouds; it mocks the 
skies; 

Or like a cradled creature lies. 

I’m on the sea! I’m on the sea! 

I am where I would ever be; 

With the blue above, and the blue 
below, 

And silence wheresoe’er I go; 

If a storm should come and awake the 
deep 

What matter ? I shall ride and sleep. 


Poems of Patriotism and History 3 55 


I love (oh, how I love!) to ride 
On the fierce, foaming, bursting tide, 
When every mad wave drowns the 
moon, 

Or whistles aloft his tempest tune, 
And tells how goeth the world below, 
And why the southrwest blasts do 
blow. 

I never was on the dull, tame shore, 
But I loved the great sea more and 
more, 

And backwards flew to her billowy 
breast, 

Like a bird that seeketh its mother’s 
nest: 

And a mother she was and is to me; 
For I was born on the open sea! 

I’ve lived since then in calm and 
strife, 

Full fifty summers a sailor’s life, 
With wealth to spend, and a power to 
range, 

But never have sought nor sighed for 
change; 

And Death, whenever he comes to me, 
Shall come on the wild unbounded 
sea! 

Barry Cornwall. 

“TO SEA! TO SEA!” 

To sea! to sea! the calm is o’er, 

The wanton water leaps in sport, 
And rattles down the pebbly shore, 
The dolphin wheels, the sea cows 
snort; 

And unseen mermaid’s pearly song 
Comes bubbling up, the weeds among. 
Fling broad the sail, dip deep the oar: 
To sea! to sea! the calm is o’er. 

To sea! to sea! our white winged bark 
Shall billowing cleave its watery 
way, 

And with its shadow, fleet and dark, 
Break the caved Triton’s azure day. 


Like mountain eagle soaring light 
O’er antelopes on Alpine height. 

The anchor heaves! the ship swings 
free! 

Our sails swell full! To sea! to sea! 

Thomas Lovell Beddoes. 


THE LEAK IN THE DIKE. 

The good dame looked from her cot¬ 
tage 

At the close of the pleasant day, 

And cheerily called to her little son 

Outside the door at play: 

“Come, Peter, come! I want you to 
go, 

While there is yet light to see, 

To the hut of the blind old man who 
lives 

Across the dike, for me; 

And take these cakes I made for 
him— 

They are hot and smoking yet; 

You have time enough to go and come 

Before the sun is set.” 

Then the good wife turned to her 
labor, 

Humming a simple song, 

And thought of her husband, working 
hard 

At the sluices all day along; 

And set the turf a-blazing, 

And brought the coarse, black 
bread, 

That he might find a fire at night, 

And see the table spread. 

And Peter left the brother 

With whom all day he had played, 

And the sister who had watched their 
sports 

In the willow’s tender shade; 

And told them they’d see him back 
before 


Poems for Children 


3 S 6 

They saw a star in sight— 

Though he wouldn’t be afraid to go 
In the very darkest night! 

For he was a brave, bright fellow, 
With eye and conscience clear; 

He could do whatever a boy might do, 
And he had not learned to fear. 
Why, he wouldn’t have robbed a 
bird’s nest, 

Nor brought a stork to harm, 
Though never a law in Holland 
Had stood to stay his arm! 

And now, with his face all glowing, 
And eyes as bright as the day 
With the thoughts of his pleasant er¬ 
rand, 

He trudged along the way; 

And soon his joyous prattle 
Made glad a lonesome place— 

Alas! if only the blind old man 
Could have seen that happy face! 
Yet he somehow caught the brightness 
Which his voice and presence lent; 
And he felt the sunshine come and go 
As Peter came and went. 

And now, as the day was sinking, 
And the winds began to rise, 

The mother looked from her door 
again, 

Shading her anxious eyes, 

And saw the shadows deepen, 

And birds to their homes come back, 
But never a sign of Peter 
Along the level track. 

But she said, ‘‘He will come at morn¬ 
ing, 

So I need not fret or grieve— 
Though it isn’t like my boy at all 
To stay without my leave.” 

But where was the child delaying? 

On the homeward way was he, 

And across the dike while the sun 
was up 

An hour above the sea. 


He was stooping now to gather 
flowers; 

Now listening to the sound, 

As the angry waters dashed them¬ 
selves 

Against their narrow bound. 

“Ah! well for us,” said Peter, 

“That the gates are good and 
strong, 

And my father tends them carefully, 
Or they would not hold you long! 
You’re a wicked sea,” said Peter; 

“I know why you fret and chafe; 
You would like to spoil our lands and 
homes; 

But our sluices keep you safe!” 

But hark! through the noise of waters 
Comes a low, clear, trickling sound; 
And the child’s face pales with terror, 
As his blossoms drop to the ground. 
He is up the bank in a moment, 

And, stealing through the sand, 

He sees a stream not yet so large 
As his slender, childish hand. 

’Tis a leak in the dike! He is but a 
boy, 

Unused to fearful scenes; 

But, young as he is, he has learned to 
know 

The dreadful thing that means. 

A leak in the dike! The stoutest heart 
Grows faint that cry to hear, 

And the bravest man in all the land 
Turns white with mortal fear. 

For he knows the smallest leak may 
grow 

To a flood in a single night; 

And he knows the strength of the 
cruel sea 

When loosed in its angry might. 

And the boy! He has seen the 
danger, 

And, shouting a wild alarm, 

He forces back the weight of the sea 
With the strength of his single arm I 


3)7 


Poems of Patriotism and History 


He listens for the joyful sound 
Of a footstep passing nigh; 

And lays his ear to the ground, to 
catch 

The answer to his cry,— 

And he hears the rough winds blow¬ 
ing, 

And the waters rise and fall, 

But never an answer comes to him 
Save the echo of his call. 

He sees no hope, no succor, 

His feeble voice is lost; 

Yet what shall he do but watch and 
wait, 

Though he perish at his post! 

So, faintly calling and crying 
Till the sun is under the sea; 
Crying and moaning till the stars 
Come out for company; 

He thinks of his brother and sister, 
Asleep in their safe, warm bed; 

He thinks of dear father and mother; 

Of himself as dying, and dead; 

And of how, when the night is over, 
They must come and find him at 
last; 

But he never thinks he can leave the 
place 

Where duty holds him fast, 

The good dame in the cottage 
Is up and astir with the light, 

For the thought of her little Peter 
Has been with her all the night. 
And now she watches the pathway, 
As yester-eve she had done; 

But what does she see so strange and 
black 

Against the rising sun? 

Her neighbors are bearing between 
them 

Something straight to her door; 
Her child is coming home, but not 
As he ever came before! 

‘‘He is dead!" she cries; “my dar¬ 
ling!" 


And the startled father hears, 

And comes and looks the way she 
looks, 

And fears the thing she fears; 

Till a glad shout from the bearers 
Thrills the stricken man and wife— 
‘ ‘ Give thanks, for your son has saved 
our land, 

And God has saved his life!" 

So, there in the morning sunshine 
They knelt about the boy; 

And every head was bared and bent 
In tearful, reverent joy. 

’Tis many a year since then; but still, 
When the sea roars like a flood, 
Their boys are taught what a boy 
can do 

Who is brave and true and good. 
For every man in that country 
Takes his son by the hand, 

And tells him of little Peter, 

Whose courage saved the land. 

They have many a valiant hero, 
Remembered through the years; 
But never one whose name so oft 
Is named with loving tears. 

And his deed shall be sung by the 
cradle, 

And told to the child on the knee, 
So long as the dikes of Holland 
Divide the land from the sea! 

Phoebe Cary . 


THE NORTHERN SEAS. 

Up! up! let us a voyage take; 

Why sit we here at ease? 

Find us a vessel tight and snug, 
Bound for the northern seas. 

I long to see the Northern Lights, 
With their rushing splendours, fly, 
Like living things, with flaming wings, 
Wide o’er the wondrous sky. 


Poems for Children 


358 

I long to see those icebergs vast, 
With heads all crowned with snow, 
Whose green roots sleep in the awful 
deep, 

Two hundred fathoms low. 

I long to hear the thundering crash 
Of their terrific fall; 

And the echoes from a thousand cliffs 
Like lonely voices call. 

There shall we see the fierce white 
bear, 

The sleepy seals aground, 

And the spouting whales that to and 
fro 

Sail with a dreary sound. 

There may we tread on depths of ice, 
That the hairy mammoth hide; 
Perfect as when, in times of old, 

The mighty creature died. 

And while the unsetting sun shines 011 
Through the still heaven’s deep 
blue, 

We’ll traverse the azure waves the 
herds 

Of the dread sea-horse to view. 

We’ll pass the shores of solemn pine, 
Where wolves and black bears 
prowl, 

And away to the rocky isles of mist 
To rouse the northern fowl. 

Up then shall start ten thousand 
wings 

With a rushing whistling din; 

Up shall the auk and fulmar start— 
All but the fat penguin. 

And there in the Avastes of the silent 
sky, 

With the silent earth beloAv, 

We shall see far off to his lonely rock 
The lonely eagle go. 


Then softly, softly will we tread 
By island streams, to see 
Where the pelican of the silent north 
Sits there all silently. 

William Howitt. 

OLD IRONSIDES. 

(September 14, 1830) 

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! 

Long has it waved on high, 

And many an eye has danced to see 
That banner in the sky; 

Beneath it rung the battle shout, 

And burst the cannon’s roar;— 
The meteor of the ocean air 
Shall sweep the clouds no more. 

Her deck, once red with heroes’ blood, 
Where knelt the vanquished foe, 
When Avinds Avere hurrying o’er the 
flood, 

And Avaves AA r ere Avhite beloAv, 

No more shall feel the victor’s tread, 
Or know the conquered knee;— 
The harpies of the shore shall pluck 
The eagle of the sea! 

Oh, better that her shattered hulk 
Should sink beneath the Avave; 

Her thunders shook the mighty deep, 
And there should be her grave; 

Nail to the mast her holy flag, 

Set every threadbare sail, 

And give her to the god of storms, 

The lightning and the gale! 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 

BARBARA FRIETCHIE. 

(September 13, 1862) 

Up from the meadoAvs rich with corn, 
Clear in the cool September morn, 

The clustered spires of Frederick 
stand 

Green-walled by the hills of Mary¬ 
land. 


Poems of Patriotism and History 359 


Round about them orchards sweep, 
Apple and peach tree fruited deep, 

Fair as the garden of the Lord 
To the eyes of the famished rebel 
horde, 

On that pleasant morn of the early 
fall 

When Lee marched over the moun¬ 
tain-wall ; 

Over the mountains winding down, 
Horse and foot, into Frederick town. 

Forty flags with their silver stars, 
Forty flags with their crimson bars, 

Flapped in the morning wind: the 
sun 

Of noon looked down, and saw not 
one. 

Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then, 
Bowed with her fourscore years and 
ten; 

Bravest of all in Frederick town, 

She took up the flag the men hauled 
down; 

V 

T11 her attic window the staff she set, 
To show that one heart was loyal yet. 

Up the street came the rebel tread, 
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. 

Under his slouched hat left and right 
ITe glanced; the old flag met his sight. 

“11311!”—the dust-brown ranks stood 
fast. 

“Fire!”'—out blazed the rifle-blast. 

It shivered the window, pane and 
sash; 

It rent the banner with seam and 
gash. 


Quick as it fell, from the broken staff 
Dame Barbara snatched the silken 
scarf. 

She leaned far out on the window-sill, 
And shook it forth with a royal will. 

“Shoot, if you must, this old gray 
head, 

But spare your country’s flag,” she 
said. 

A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, 
Over the face of the leader came; 

The nobler nature within him stirred 
To life at that woman’s deed and 
word; 

“Who touches a hair of yon gray 
head 

Dies like a dog! March on! ” he said. 

All day long through the Frederick 
street 

Sounded the tread of marching feet: 

All day long that free flag tossed 
Over the heads of the rebel host. 

Ever its torn folds rose and fell 
On the loyal winds that loved it well; 

And through the hill-gaps sunset light 
Shone over it with a warm good-night. 

Barbara Frietchie’s work is o’er, 

And the Rebel rides on his raids no 
more. 

Honor to her! and let a tear 
Fall, for her sake, on Stonew r all’s bier. 

Over Barbara Frietchie’s grave, 

Flag of Freedom and Union wave! 


Poems for Children 


36° 

Peace and order and beauty draw 
Round thy symbol of light and law; 

And ever the stars above look down 
On thy stars below in Frederick town! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 


BROWN OF OSSAWATOMIE 

(December 2 , 1859) 

John Brown of Ossawatomie spake 
on his dying day: 

“I will not have to shrive my soul a 
priest in Slavery’s pay. 

But let some poor slave-mother whom 
I have striven to free, 

With her children, from the gallows- 
stair put up a prayer for me!” 

John Brown of Ossawatomie, they led 
him out to die; 

And lo! a poor slave-mother with her 
little child pressed nigh. 

Then the bold, blue eye grew tender, 
and the old harsh face grew mild, 

As he stooped between the jeering 
ranks and kissed the negro’s child! 

The shadows of his stormy life that 
moment fell apart; 

And they who blamed the bloody 
hand forgave the loving heart. 

That kiss from all its guilty means re¬ 
deemed the good intent, 

And round the grisly fighter’s hair 
the martyr’s aureole bent! 

Perish with him the folly that seeks 
through evil good! 

Long live the generous purpose un¬ 
stained with human blood! 

Not the raid of midnight terror, but 
the thought which underlies; 

Not the borderer’s pride of daring, 
but the Christian’s sacrifice. 


Nevermore may yon Blue Ridges the 
Northern rifle hear, 

Nor see the light of blazing homes 
flash on the negro’s spear; 

But let the free-winged angel Truth 
their guarded passes scale, 

To teach that right is more than 
might, and justice more than mail! 

So vainly shall Virginia set her battle 
in array; 

I11 vain her trampling squadrons 
knead the winter snow with clay. 

She may strike the pouncing eagle, 
but she dares not harm the dove; 

And every gate she bars to Hate, shall 
open wide to Love! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 

WINDLASS SONG. 

Heave at the windlass!—Heave 0 , 
cheerly, men! 

Heave all at once, with a will! 

The tide quickly making, 

Our cordage a-creaking, 

The water has put on a frill, 

Heave 0 ! 

Fare you well, sweethearts!—Heave 
O, cheerly, men! 

Fare you well, frolic and sport! 

The good ship all ready 
Each dog-vane is steady, 

The wind blowing dead out of port. 

Heave 0 ! 

Once in blue water — Heave 0 , 
cheerly, men! 

Blow it from north or from south; 
She’ll stand to it tightly, 

And curtsey politely, 

And carry a bone in her mouth, 

Heave 0 ! 


Poems of Patriotism ana History 361 


Short cruise or long cruise—Heave 0 , 
cheerly, men! 

Jolly Jack Tar thinks it one. 

No latitude dreads he 
Of White, Black, or Red Sea, 
Great icebergs, or tropical sun, 

Heave 0 ! 

One other turn, and Heave 0 , cheerly, 
men! 

Heave, and good-bye to the shore! 
Our money, how went it? 

We shared it and spent it; 

Next year well come back with 
some more, 

Heave 0 ! 
William Allingham. 


A WET SHEET AND A 
FLOWING SEA. 

A wet sheet and a flowing sea, 

A wind that follows fast, 

And fills the white and rustling sail, 
And bends the gallant mast; 

And bends the gallant mast, my boys, 
While, like the eagle free, 

Away the good ship flies, and leaves 
Old England on the lee. 

0 for a soft and gentle wind! 

I heard a fair one cry; 

But give to me the snoring breeze 
And white waves heaving high; 
And white waves heaving high, my 
boys, 

The good ship tight and free— 

The world of waters is our home, 

And merry men are we. 

There’s tempest in yon horned moon, 
And lightning in yon cloud; 

And hark the music mariners! 

The wind is piping loud; 


The wind is piping loud, my boys, 
The lightning flashing free— 
While the hollow oak our palace is, 
Our heritage the sea. 

Allan Cunningham. 

THE CAPTAIN STOOD ON THE 
CARRONADE. 

The captain stood on the carronade— 
‘ ‘ First lieutenant, ’ ’ says he, 
“Send all my merry men aft here, 
for they must list to me: 

I haven’t the gift of the gab, my 
sons—because I’m bred to the sea, 
That ship there is a Frenchman, who 
means to fight with we. 

Odds blood, hammer and tongs, 
long as I’ve been to sea, 

I’ve fought ’gainst every odds— 
but I’ve gained the victory. 

“That ship there is a Frenchman, 
and if we don’t take she, 

’Tis a thousand bullets to one, that 
she will capture we; 

I haven’t the gift of the gab, my boys, 
so each man to his gun, 

If she’s not mine in half-an-hour, I’ll 
flog each mother’s son. 

Odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long 
as I’ve been to sea, 

I’ve fought ’gainst every odds— 
and I’ve gained the victory.” 

We fought for twenty minutes, when 
the Frenchman had enough, 

“I little thought,” said he, “that 
your men were of such stuff.” 
The captain took the Frenchman’s 
sword, a low bow made to he— 
“I haven’t the gift of the gab. Mon¬ 
sieur, but polite I wish to be. 
Odds bobs, hammer and tongs, long 
as I’ve been to sea, 

I’ve fought ’gainst every odds— 
and I’ve gained the victory.” 


Poems for Children 


362 

Our captain sent for all of us; “My 
merry men,” said he, 

“I haven’t the gift of the gab, my 
lads, but yet I thankful be; 
You’ve done your duty handsomely, 
each man stood to his gun, 

If you hadn’t, you villains, as sure 
as day, I’d have flogged each 
mother’s son. 

Odds bobs, hammer and tongs, as 
long as I’m at sea, 

I’ll fight ’gainst every odds—and 
I’ll gain the victory.” 

Frederick Marryat . 


GIBRALTAR. 

Seven weeks of sea, and twice seven 
days of storm 

Upon the huge Atlantic, and once 
more 

We ride into still water and the calm 

Of a sweet evening screened by either 
shore 

Of Spain and Barbary. Our toils are 
o ’er, 

Our exile is accomplished. Once 
again 

We look on Europe, mistress as of 
yore 

Of the fair earth and of the hearts of 
men. 

Ay, this is the famed rock, which 
Hercules 

And Goth and Moor bequeathed us. 
At this door 

England stands sentry. God! to hear 
the shrill 

Sweet treble of her fifes upon the 
breeze 

And at the summons of the rock gun’s 
roar 

To see her red coats marching from 
the hill. 

Wilfred Scaiven Blunt. 


THE TAR FOR ALL WEATHERS. 

I sail’d from the Downs in the Nancy, 
My jib how she smack’d through 
the breeze! 

She’s a vessel as tight to my fancy 
As ever sail’d on the salt seas. 

So adieu to the white cliffs of Britain, 
Our girls and our dear native shore! 

For if some hard rock we should split 
on, 

We shall never see them any more. 

But sailors were born for all weathers, 
Great guns let it blow, high or low, 

Our duty keeps us to our tethers, 

And where the gale drives we must 
go. 

When we entered the Straits of 
Gibraltar 

I verily thought she’d have sunk, 

For the wind began so for to alter, 

She yaw’d just as tho’ she was 
drunk. 

The squall tore the mainsail to shivers, 
Helm a-weather, the hoarse boat¬ 
swain cries; 

Brace the foresail athwart, see she 
quivers, 

As through the rough tempest she 
flies. 

But sailors were born for all weathers, 
Great guns let it blow, high or low, 

Our duty keeps us to our tethers, 

And where the gale drives we must 
go. 

The storm came on thicker and faster, 
As black just as pitch was the sky, 

When truly a doleful disaster 
Befel three poor sailors and I. 

Ben Buntline, Sam Shroud, and Dick 
Handsail, 

By a blast that came furious and 
hard, 

Just while we were furling the main¬ 
sail, 

Were every soul swept from the 
yard. 


Poems of Patriotism and History 363 


But sailors were born for all weathers, 
Great guns let it blow, high or low’ 
Our duty keeps us to our tethers, 

And where the gale drives we must 
go. 

Poor Ben, Sam and Dick cried pec- 
cavi, 

As for I, at the risk of my neck, 
While they sank down in peace to old 
Davy, 

Caught a rope, and so landed on 
deck. 

Well, what would you have? We 
were stranded, 

And out of a fine jolly crew 
Of three hundred that sail’d, never 
landed 

But I, and I think, twenty-two. 

But sailors were born for all weathers, 
Great guns let it blow, high or low, 
Our duty keeps us to our tethers, 

And where the gale drives we must 
go. 

Charles Dihden. 


SHERIDAN’S RIDE. 

(October 10, 1864) 

Up from the South, at break of day, 
Bringing to Winchester fresh dismay, 
The affrighted air with a shudder 
bore, 

Like a herald in haste, to the chief¬ 
tain’s door, 

The terrible grumble, and rumble, 
and roar, 

Telling the battle was on once more, 
And Sheridan twenty miles away. 

And wider still those billows of war 
Thundered along the horizon’s bar ; 
And louder yet into Winchester rolled 
The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, 


Making the blood of the listener cold, 

As he thought of the stake in that 
fiery fray, 

And Sheridan twenty miles away. 

But there is a road from Winchester 
town, 

A good, broad highway leading down: 

And there, through the flush of the 
morning light, 

A steed as black as the steeds of night 

Was seen to pass, as with eagle flight; 

As if he knew the terrible need, 

He stretched away with his utmost 
speed; 

Hills rose and fell, but his heart was 

gay, 

With Sheridan fifteen miles away. 

Still sprang from those swift hoofs, 
thundering south, 

The dust, like smoke from the can¬ 
non’s mouth, 

Or the trail of a comet, sweeping 
faster and faster, 

Foreboding to traitors the doom of 
disaster. 

The heart of the steed and the heart 
of the master 

Were beating like prisoners assault¬ 
ing their walls, 

Impatient to be where the battle-field 
calls; 

Every nerve of the charger was 
strained to full play, 

With Sheridan only ten miles away. 

Under his spurning feet, the road 

Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed, 

And the landscape sped away behind 

Like an ocean flying before the wind; 

And the steed, like a bark fed with 
furnace ire, 

Swept on, with his wild eye full of 
fire; 

But, lo! lie is nearing his heart’s 
desire; 


364 Poems for Children 


lie is snuffing the smoke of the roar¬ 
ing fray, 

WithrSheridan only five miles away. 

The first that the general saw were 
the groups 

Of stragglers, and then the retreating 
troops; 

What was done ? what to do ? a glance 
told him both, 

Then, striking his spurs, with a ter¬ 
rible oath, 

He dashed down the line, ’mid a 
storm of huzzas, 

And the wave of retreat checked its 
course there, because 

The sight of the master compelled it 
to pause. 

With foam and with dust the black 
charger was gray; 

By the flash of his eye, and the red 
nostril’s play, 

He seemed to the whole great army 
to say: 

‘ ‘ I have brought you Sheridan all the 
way 

Prom Winchester town to save the 
day!” 

Hurrah ! hurrah for Sheridan! 

Hurrah! hurrah for horse and man! 

And when their statues are placed on 
high, 

Under the dome of the Union sky, 

The American soldier’s Temple of 
Fame, 

There, with the glorious general’s 
name, 

Be it said, in letters both bold and 
bright: 

“Here is the steed that saved the day 

By carrying Sheridan into the fight, 

From Winchester—twenty miles 
away! ’ ’ 

Thomas Buchanan Bead. 


SONG OF SHERMAN’S MARCH TO 
THE SEA. 

(November, 1864) 

Our camp-fires shone bright on the 
mountains 

That frowned on the river below, 

While we stood by our guns in the 
morning, 

And eagerly watched for the foe; 

When a rider came out from the dark¬ 
ness 

That hung over mountain and tree, 

And shouted: “Boj^s, up and be 
ready, 

For Sherman will march to the 
sea. ’ ’ 

Then cheer upon cheer for bold Sher¬ 
man 

Went up from each valley and glen, 

And the bugles reechoed the music 

That came from the lips of the men: 

For we knew that the stars in our 
banner 

More bright in their splendor would 
be, 

And that blessings from Northland 
would greet us 

When Sherman marched down to 
the sea. 

Then forward, boys, forward to 
battle! 

We marched on our wearisome way, 

And we stormed the wild hills of 
Resaca; 

God bless those who fell on that 
day! 

Then Kenesaw, dark in its glory, 

Frowned down on the flag of the 
free, 

But the East and the West bore our 
standards, 

And Sherman marched on to the 
sea. 


Poems of Patriotism and History 365 


Still onward we pressed, till onr 
banners 

Swept out from Atlanta’s grim 
walls, 

And the blood of the patriot damp¬ 
ened 

The soil where the traitor flag falls; 

Yet we paused not to weep for the 
fallen, 

Who slept by each river and tree; 

We twined them a wreath of the 
laurel 

As Sherman marched down to the 
sea. 


Oh! proud was our army that morn¬ 
ing, 

That stood where the pine darkly 
towers, 

When Sherman said: “Boys, you are 
weary; 

This day fair Savannah is ours!” 

Then sang we a song for our chieftain, 

That echoed o’er river and lea, 

And the stars in our banner shone 
brighter 

When Sherman marched down to 
the sea. 

Samuel Hawkins Marshall Byers. 


SONG OF THE EMIGRANTS IN 
BERMUDAS. 

Where the remote Bermudas ride 
In the ocean’s bosom unespied, 

From a small boat that row’d along 
The listening winds received this 
song: 

“What should we do but sing His 
praise 

That led us through the watery maze 
Unto an isle so long unknown, 

And yet far kinder than our own? 


Where He the huge sea monsters 
wracks 

That lift the deep upon their backs, 
He lands us on a grassy stage, 

Safe from the storms, and prelate’s 
rage: 

He gave us this eternal spring 
Which here enamels everything, 

And sends the fowls to us in care 
On daily visits through the air. 

He hangs in shades the orange bright 
Like golden lamps in a green night, 
And does in the pomegranates close 
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows: 
He makes the figs our mouths to meet, 
And throws the melons at our feet; 
But apples plants of such a price, 

No tree could ever bear them twice! 
With cedars chosen by His hand 
From Lebanon He stores the land; 
And makes the hollow seas that roar 
Proclaim the ambergris on shore. 

He cast (of which we rather boast) 
The Gospel’s pearl upon our coast; 
And in these rocks for us did frame 
A temple where to sound His name. 
0 let our voice His praise exalt 
Till it arrive at Heaven’s vault, 

Which then perhaps rebounding may 
Echo beyond the Mexique bay!” 

—Thus sung they in the English boat 
A holy and a cheerful note: 

And all the way, to guide their chime, 
With falling oars they kept the time. 

Andrew Marvell. 


MARCHING THROUGH GEORGIA. 

Bring the good old bugle, boys, we’ll 
sing another song— 

Sing it with a spirit that will start 
the world along— 

Sing it as we used to sing it fifty thou¬ 
sand strong, 

While we were marching through 
Georgia. 


366 


Poems for Children 


Chorus 

‘‘Hurrah! Hurrah! we bring the 
jubilee! 

Hurrah! Hurrah! the flag that 
makes you free! ’ ’ 

So we sang the chorus from Atlanta 
to the sea, 

While we were marching through 
Georgia. 

How the darkeys shouted when they 
heard the joyful sound! 

How the turkeys gobbled which our 
commissary found! 

How the sweet potatoes even started 
from the ground, 

While we were marching through 
Georgia. 

Yes, and there were Union men who 
wept with joyful tears. 

When they saw the honored flag they 
had not seen for years; 

Hardly could they be restrained from 
breaking forth in cheers 

While we were marching through 
Georgia. 

“Sherman’s dashing Yankee boys will 
never reach the coast!” 

So the saucy rebels said—and ’twas a 
handsome boast, 

Had they not forgot, alas! to reckon 
on a host, 

While we were marching through 
Georgia. 

So we made a thoroughfare for Free¬ 
dom and her train, 

Sixty miles in latitude—three hun¬ 
dred to the main; 


Treason fled before us, for resistance 
was in vain, 

While we were marching through 
Georgia. 

Henry Clay Work. 

THE CAVALIER’S SONG. 

A steed ! a steed of matchless speed, 
A sword of metal keen! 

All else to noble hearts is dross, 

All else on earth is mean. 

The neighing of the war-horse proud, 
The rolling of the drum, 

The clangour of the trumpet loud, 

Be sounds from heaven that come. 

And oh! the thundering press of 
knights 

Whenas their war cries swell, 

May tole from heaven an angel bright, 
And rouse a fiend from hell. 

Then mount! then mount, brave gal¬ 
lants, all, 

And don your helms amain: 
Death’s couriers, Fame and Honor, 
Call us to the field again. 

No shrewish tears shall fill our eye 
When the sword-hilt’s in our 
hand,— 

Heart-whole we’ll part, and no whit 
sigh 

For the fairest of the land! 

Let piping swain, and craven wight, 
Thus weep and puling cry, 

Our business is like men to fight, 

And hero-like to die! 

William Motherwell. 


XII 


Ballads 


THE BABES IN THE WOOD. 

Now ponder well, you parents dear, 
These words which I shall write; 

A doleful story you shall hear, 

In time brought forth to light. 

A gentleman of good account 
In Norfolk dwelt of late, 

Who did in honor far surmount 
Most men of his estate. 

Sore sick he was, and like to die, 

No help his life could save; 

His wife by him as sick did lie, 

And both possessed one grave. 

No love between these two was lost, 
Each was to other kind; 

In love they lived, in love they died, 
And left two babes behind. 

The one a fine and pretty boy, 

Not passing three years old; 

The other a girl more young than he, 
And framed in beauty’s mould. 

The father left his little son, 

As plainly doth appear, 

When he to perfect age should come, 
Three hundred pounds a year. 

And to his little daughter, Jane, 

Five hundred pounds in gold, 

To be paid down on marriage-day, 
Which might not be controlled. 

But if the children chance to die 
Ere they to age should come, 

Their uncle should possess their 
wealth; 

For so the will did run. 


“Now, brother,” said the dying man, 
“Look to my children dear; 

Be good unto my boy and girl, 

No friends have else they here: 

To God and you I recommend 
My children dear this day; 

But little while be sure we have 
Within this world to stay. 

“You must be father and mother 
both, 

And uncle all in one; 

God knows what will become of them 
When I am dead and gone.” 

With that bespake their mother dear, 
“Oh brother kind,” quoth she, 
“You are the man must bring our 
babes 

To wealth or misery: 

“And if you keep them carefully, 
Then God will you reward; 

But if you otherwise should deal, 

God will your deeds regard.” 

With lips as cold as any stone, 

They kissed their children small: 
“God bless you both, my children 
dear!’ ’ 

With that the tears did fall. 

These speeches then their brother 
spoke, 

To this sick couple there: 

“The keeping of your little ones, 
Sweet sister, do not fear: 

God never prosper me nor mine, 

Nor ought else that I have, 

If I do wrong your children dear, 
When you are laid in grave.” 


Poems for Children 


368 

The parents being dead and gone, 

The children home he takes, 

And brings them straight unto his 
house, 

Where much of them he makes. 

He had not kept these pretty babes 
A twelvemonth and a day, 

But, for their wealth, he did devise 
To make them both away. 

He bargained with two ruffians strong, 
Which were of furious mood, 

That they should take these children 
young, 

And slay them in a wood. 

He told his wife an artful tale, 

He would the children send, 

To be brought up in fair London, 
With one that was his friend. 

Away then went those pretty babes 
Rejoicing at their tide, 

Rejoicing in a merry mind, 

They should on cock-horse ride. 
They prate and prattle pleasantly 
As they rode on the way, 

To those that should their butchers be, 
And work their lives’ decay. 

So that the pretty speech they had 
Made Murder’s heart relent; 

And they that undertook the deed 
Full sore did now repent. 

Yet one of them more hard of heart 
Did vow to do his charge, 

Because the wretch that hired him 
Had paid him very large. 

The other won’t agree thereto, 

So here they fall to strife; 

With one another they did fight, 
About the children’s life; 

And he that was of mildest mood 
Did slay the other there, 

Within an unfrequented wood; 

The babes did quake for fear! 


He took the children by the hand, 
Tears standing in their eye, 

And bade them straightway follow 
him 

And look they did not cry. 

And two long miles he led them on, 
While they for food complain; 
“Stay here,” quoth he; “I’ll bring 
you bread 

When I come back again.” 

These pretty babes, with hand in 
hand, 

Went wandering up and down; 
But never more could see the man 
Approaching from the town: 

Their pretty lips with blackberries 
Were all besmeared and dyed; 

And when they saw the darksome 
night 

They sat them down and cried. 

Thus wandered these poor innocents, 
Till death did end their grief; 

I11 one another’s arms they died, 

As wanting due relief : 

No burial this pretty pair 
Of any man receives, 

Till Robin Redbreast piously 
Did cover them with leaves. 

And now the heavy wrath of God 
LTpon their uncle fell; 

Yea, fearful fiends did haunt his 
house, 

His conscience felt an hell: 

His barns were fired, his goods con¬ 
sumed, 

His lands were barren made, 

His cattle died within the field, 

And nothing with him stayed. 

And in a voyage to Portugal 
Two of his sons did die; 

And to conclude, himself was brought 
To want and misery: 


Ballads 


He pawned and mortgaged all liis 
land 

Ere seven years came about; 

And now at length this wicked act 
Did by this means come out: 

The fellow that did take in hand 
These children for to kill, 

Was for a robbery judged to die, 
Such was God’s blessed will; 

So did confess the very truth, 

As here hath been displayed; 

Their uncle having died in gaol, 
Where he for debt was laid. 

You that executors be made 
And overseers eke 
Of children that be fatherless 
And infants mild and meek; 

Take you example by this thing, 

And yield to each his right, 

Lest God with such like misery 
Your wicked minds requite. 

Unknown . 

THE SINGING LEAVES. 

I 

“What fairings will ye that I 
bring?” 

Said the King to his daughters 
three; 

“For I to Vanity Fair am boun, 

Now say what shall they be?” 

Then up and spake the eldest daugh¬ 
ter, 

That lady tall and grand: 

“Oh, bring me pearls and diamonds 
great, 

And gold rings for my hand.” 

Thereafter spake the second daughter, 
That was both white and red: 

“For me bring silks that will stand 
alone, 

And a gold comb for my head.” 


3°9 

Then came the turn of the least 
daughter, 

That was whiter than thistle-down, 
And among the gold of her blithe¬ 
some hair 

Dim shone the golden crown. 

“There came a bird this morning, 

And sang ’neath my bower eaves, 
Till I dreamed, as his music made me, 

‘ Ask thou for the Singing Leaves. ’ ’ ’ 

Then the brow of the King swelled 
crimson 

With a flush of angry scorn: 

“Well have ye spoken, my two eldest, 
And chosen as ye were born; 

“But she, like a thing of peasant race, 
That is happy binding the sheaves; ’ ’ 
Then he saw her dear mother in her 
face, 

And said, “Thou shalt have thy 
leaves. ’ ’ 

II 

He mounted and rode three days and 
nights, 

Till he came to Vanity Fair, 

And ’twas easy to buy the gems and 
the silk, 

But no Singing Leaves were there. 

Then deep in the greenwood rode he, 
And asked of every tree, 

“Oh, if you have ever a Singing Leaf, 
I pray you give it to me! ’ ’ 

But the trees all kept their counsel, 
And never a word said they, 

Only there sighed from the pine-tops 
A music of seas far away. 

Only the pattering aspen 
Made a sound of growing rain, 
That fell ever faster and faster, 

Then faltered to silence again. 


37 ° 


Poems for Children 


“Oh, where shall I find a little foot- 
page 

That would win both hose and 
slioon, 

And will bring to me the Singing 
Leaves 

If they grow under the moon?” 

Then lightly turned him Walter the 
page, 

By the stirrup as he ran: 

“Now pledge you me the truesome 
word 

Of a king and gentleman, 

“That you will give me the first, first 
thing 

You meet at your castle-gate, 

And the Princess will get the Singing 
Leaves, 

Or mine be a traitor's fate.” 

The King’s head dropt upon his 
breast 

A moment, as it might be; 

’Twill be my dog, he thought, and 
said, 

“My faith I plight to thee.” 

Then Walter took from next his heart 

A packet small and thin, 

“Now give you this to the Princess 
Anne, 

The Singing Leaves are therein.” 

Ill 

As the King rode in at his castle-gate, 

A maiden to meet him ran, 

And “Welcome, father!” she laughed 
and cried 

Together, the Princess Anne. 

“Lo, here the Singing Leaves,” 
quoth he, 

“And woe, but they cost me dear!” 

She took the packet, and the smile 

Deepened down beneath the tear. 


It deepened down till it reached her 
heart, 

And then gushed up again, 

And lighted her tears as the sudden 
sun 

Transfigures the summer rain. 

And the first Leaf, when it was 
opened, 

Sang: “I am Walter the page, 

And the songs I sing ’neath thy win¬ 
dow 

Are my only heritage.” 

And the second Leaf sang: “But in 
the land 

That is neither on earth nor sea, 

My lute and I are lords of more 

Than thrice this kingdom’s fee.” 

And the third Leaf sang, “Be mine! 
Be mine! 

And ever it sang, “Be mine!” 

Then sweeter it sang and ever sweeter, 

And said, “I am thine, thine, 
thine! ’ ’ 

At the first Leaf she grew pale 
enough, 

At the second she turned aside, 

At the third, ’twas as if a lily flushed 

With a rose’s red heart’s tide. 

“Good counsel gave the bird,” said 
she, 

“I have my hope thrice o’er, 

For they sing to my very heart,” she 
said, 

“And it sings to them evermore.” 

She brought to him her beauty and 
truth, 

But and broad earldoms three, 

And he made her queen of the 
broader lands 

He held of his lute in fee. 

James Russell Lowell. 


Ballads 


THE RAREST BALLAD THAT EVER 
WAS SEEN, OF THE BLIND 
BEGGAR’S DAUGHTER OF 
BETHNAL GREEN. 

PART I 

It was a blind beggar had long lost 
his sight, 

He had a fair daughter of beauty 
most bright; 

And many a gallant brave suitor had 
she, 

For none was so comely as pretty 
Bessie. 

And though she was of favor most 
fair, 

Yet seeing she was but a poor beggar’s 
heir, 

Of ancient housekeepers despised was 
she, 

Whose sons came as suitors to pretty 
Bessie. 

Wherefore in great sorrow fair Bessie 
did say, 

“Good father and mother, let me go 
away 

To seek out my fortune, whatever 
it be.” 

This suit then they granted to pretty 
Bessie. 

Then Bessie that was of beauty so 
bright, 

All clad in gray russet, and late in the 
night, 

From father and mother alone parted 
she, 

Who sighed and sobbed for pretty 
Bessie. 

She went till she came to Stratford- 
le-Bow; 

Then knew she not whither, nor which 
way to go: 


37 1 

With tears she lamented her hard 
destiny, 

So sad and so heavy was pretty 
Bessie. 

She kept on her journey until it was 

day, 

And went unto Romford along the 
high way; 

Where at the Queen’s Arms enter¬ 
tained was she, 

So fair and well favored was pretty 
Bessie. 

She had not been there a month to an 
end 

But master and mistress and all was 
her friend: 

And every brave gallant that once did 
her see, 

Was straightway enamored of pretty 
Bessie. 

Great gifts did they send her of silver 
and gold 

And in their songs daily her love was 
extolled; 

Her beauty was blazed in every de¬ 
gree, 

So fair and so comely was pretty 
Bessie. 

The young men of Romford in her 
had their joy; 

She showed herself courteous, and 
modestly coy; 

And at her commandment still would 
they be, 

So fair and so comely was pretty 
Bessie. 

Four suitors at once unto her did go; 

They craved her favor, but still she 
said “No; 

I would not wish gentles to marry 
with me;” 

Yet ever they honored pretty Bessie. 


37 2 


Poems for Children 


The first of them was a gallant young 
knight, 

And he came unto her disguised in 
the night: 

The second a gentleman of good de¬ 
gree, 

Who wooed and sued for pretty 
Bessie. 

A merchant of London, whose wealth 
Avas not small, 

He was the third suitor, and proper 
withal: 

Her master’s own son the fourth man 
must be, 

Who swore he would die for pretty 
Bessie. 

‘ * And if thou wilt marry me, ’ ’ quoth 
the knight, 

“I’ll make thee a ladj^ with joy and 
delight; 

My heart’s so enthralled by thy 
beauty, 

That soon I shall die for pretty 
Bessie.’ ’ 

The gentleman said, “Come, marry 
with me, 

As fine as a lady my Bessie shall be; 

My life is distressed: oh, hear me,” 
quoth he; 

“And grant me thy love, my jDretty 
Bessie. ’ ’ 

“Let me be thy husband,” the mer¬ 
chant did say, 

“Thou shalt live in London, both 
gallant and gay; 

My ships shall bring home rich jewels 
for thee, 

And I will for ever love pretty 
Bessie. ’ ’ 

Then Bessie she sighed, and thus she 
did say: 

“My father and mother I mean to 
obey; 


First get their good will and be 
faithful to me, 

And you shall then marry your pretty 
Bessie.” 

To every one this answer she made; 

Wherefore unto her they joyfully 
said: 

“This thing we fulfil we all do agree; 

But where dwells thy father, my 
pretty Bessie?” 

“My father,” she said, “is soon to 
be seen; 

The silly blind beggar of Bethnal 
Green, 

That daily sits begging there for 
charitie, 

He is the good father of pretty Bessie. 

“His marks and his tokens are known 
full well; 

He always is led with a dog and a 
bell: 

A silly old man, God knoweth, is he, 

Yet he is the father of pretty Bessie.” 

“Nay, then,” quoth the merchant, 
“Thou art not for me:” 

“Not yet,” said the innholder, “my 
wife shalt thou be:” 

“I loathe,” said the gentle, “a beg¬ 
gar’s degree, 

And therefore adieu, my pretty 
Bessie!” 

“Why, then,” quoth the knight, “hap 
better or worse, 

I weigh not true love by the weight 
of the purse, 

And beauty is beauty in every de¬ 
gree; 

Then welcome to me, my pretty 
Bessie. 


Ballads 


“With thee to thy father forthwith I 
will go.” 

“Nay, soft,” said his kinsman, “it 
must not be so; 

A poor beggar’s daughter no lady 
shall be, 

Then take thy adieu of pretty 
Bessie. ’ ’ 

But soon after this by break of the 
day, 

The knight had from Romford stole 
Bessie away. 

The young men of Romford, as thick 
as might be, 

Rode after to fetch again pretty 
Bessie. 

As swift as the wind to ride they 
were seen, 

Until they came near, until Bethnal 
Green; 

And as the knight lighted most 
courteously, 

They all fought against him for pretty 
Bessie. 

But rescue came speedily over the 
plain, 

Or else the young knight for his love 
had been slain. 

This fray being ended, then straight¬ 
way d’ye see, 

His kinsmen came railing at pretty 
Bessie. 

Then spake the blind beggar, “Al¬ 
though I be poor, 

Yet rail not against my child at my 
door; 

Though she be not decked in velvet 
and pearl, 

Yet I will drop angels * with you for 
my girl. 

* Angel —An old English coin. 


373 

“And then if my gold may better 
her birth, 

And equal the gold you lay on the 
earth, 

Then neither rail nor grudge you to 
see 

The blind beggar’s daughter a lady 
to be. 


‘ ‘ But first you shall promise, and have 
it well known, 

The gold that you drop shall all be 
your own.” 

With that they replied, “Contented 
be we.” 

“Then here’s,” quoth the beggar, 
“for pretty Bessie.” 


With that an angel he cast on the 
ground, 

And dropped in angels full three 
thousand pound; 

And oftentimes it was proved most 
plain, 

For the gentlemen’s one the beggar 
dropped twain: 


So that the place wherein they did 
sit, 

With gold it was covered every whit; 

The gentlemen then having dropped 
all their store, 

Said, “Now, beggar, hold, for we have 
no more. 


“Well hast thou fulfilled thy prom¬ 
ise aright.” 

“Then marry,” quoth he, “my girl 
to this knight; 

And here,” added he, “I will throw 
you down 

A hundred pounds more to buy her 
a gown.” 


< 


374 Poems for Children 


The gentlemen all, that this treasure 
had seen, 

Admired the beggar of Bethnal 
Green; 

And all those that were her suitors 
before, 

Their flesh for very anger they tore. 

Thus was fair Bessie matched to the 
knight, 

And then made a lady in others ’ 
despite: 

A fairer lady there never was seen, 

Than the blind beggar’s daughter of 
Bethnal Green. 

But of their sumptuous marriage and 
feast, 

What brave lords and knights thither 
were prest, 

The second part shall set forth to 
your sight, 

With marvellous pleasure and wished 
delight. 

PART II 

Of a blind beggar’s daughter most 
fair and most bright, 

That late was betrothed to a young 
knight, 

The discourse thereof you lately did 
see, 

But now comes the wedding of pretty 
Bessie. 

Within a gorgeous palace most brave, 

Adorned with all the cost they could 
have, 

This wedding was kept most sump¬ 
tuously, 

And all for the credit of pretty Bessie. 

All kinds of dainties and delicates 
sweet 

Were brought to the banquet, as it 
was most meet; 


Partridge and plover, and venison 
most free, 

Against the brave wedding of pretty 
Bessie. 

This wedding through England was 
spread by report, 

So that a great number thereto did 
resort 

Of nobles and gentles in every degree, 

And all for the fame of pretty Bessie. 

To church then went this gallant 
young knight; 

His bride followed after, a lady most 
bright, 

With troops of fair ladies, the like 
ne’er was seen, 

As went with sweet Bessie of Bethnal 
Green. 

* 

This marriage being solemnized then, 

With music performed by the skil- 
fullest men, 

The nobles and gentles sat down at 
that tide, 

Each one admiring the beautiful 
bride. 

Now after the sumptuous dinner was 
done, 

To talk and to reason a number be¬ 
gun; 

They talked of the blind beggar’s 
daughter most bright, 

And what with his daughter he gave 
to the knight. 

Then spake the nobles, “Much marvel 
have we 

This jolly blind beggar we cannot 
here see.” 

“My Lords,” said the bride, “my 
father’s so base, 

He is loathe with his presence these 
states to disgrace.” 


Ballads 37 5 


“The praise of a woman in question 
to bring, 

Before her own face were a flattering 
thing; 

But we think thy father’s baseness,” 
said they, 

“Might by thy beauty be clean put 
away. ’ ’ 

They had no sooner these pleasant 
words spoke, 

But in comes the beggar clad in a silk 
cloak; 

A fair velvet cap, and a feather had 
he; 

And now a musician forsooth he 
would be. 

Tie had a dainty lute under his arm, 

lie touched the strings, which made 
such a charm, 

Said, “Please you to hear any music 
of me, 

I’ll sing you a song of pretty Bessie.” 

With that his lute he twanged straight 
away, 

And thereupon began most sweetly to 
play; 

And after that lessons were played 
two or three, 

He strained out this song most 
delicately: 

“A poor beggar’s daughter did dwell 
on the green, 

Who for her fairness might well be a 
queen, 

A blithe bonny lassie, and a dainty 
was she, 

And many one called her pretty 
Bessie. 

“And if any one here her birth do 
disdain, 

Her father is ready with might and 
with main, 


To prove she is come of noble degree; 

Therefore never flout at pretty 
Bessie.” 

With that the lords and the company 
round 

With hearty laughter were ready to 
swound; 

At last said the lords, “Full well may 
we see 

The bride and the beggar’s beholden 
to thee.” 

On this the bride all blushing did rise, 

The pearly drops standing within her 
fair eyes, 

‘Oh pardon my father, brave nobles,” 
saith she, 

“That through blind affection thus 
doteth on me.” 

“If this be thy father,” the nobles 
did say, 

“Well may he be proud of this happy 
day; 

Yet by his countenance well may we 
see, 

His birth and his fortune did never 
agree; 

“And therefore, blind man, we pray 
thee take care 

(And look that the truth thou to us 
do declare), 

Thy birth and thy parentage, what 
it may be, 

For the love that thou bearest to 
pretty Bessie.” 

“Then give me leave, nobles and 
gentles each one, 

One song more to sing, and then I 
have done; 

And if that it may not win good re¬ 
port, 

Then do not give me a groat for my 
sport: 


Poems for Children 


37 6 

“ ‘Sir Simon de Montfort my sub¬ 
ject shall be, 

Once chief of all the great barons 
was he; 

Yet fortune so cruel this lord did 
abase, 

Now lost and forgotten are he and his 
race. 

‘ ‘ ‘ When the barons in arms did King 
Henry oppose, 

Sir Simon de Montfort their leader 
did chose; 

A leader of courage, undaunted was 
he, 

And ofttimes he made their enemies 
flee. 


“ ‘At length in the battle on Ever- 
sham plain, 

The barons were routed, and Montfort 
was slain; 

Most fatal that battle did prove unto 
thee, 

Though thou was not born then, my 
pretty Bessie! 

“ ‘Along with the nobles that fell at 
that tide, 

His elder son Henry, who fought by 
his side, 

Was felled by a blow he received in 
the fight, 

A blow that deprived him for ever of 
sight. 

“ ‘Among the dead bodies all lifeless 
he lay, 

Till evening drew on of the follow¬ 
ing day, 

When by a young lady discovered was 
he, 

And this was thy mother, my pretty 
Bessie. 


“ ‘A baron’s fair daughter stepped 
forth in the night, 

To search for her father, who fell in 
the fight, 

And seeing young Montfort, where 
gasping he lay, 

Was moved with pity, and brought 
him away. 

“ ‘In secret she nursed him, and 
’suaged his pain, 

While he through the realm was be¬ 
lieved to be slain: 

At length his fair bride she consented 
to be, 

And made him glad father of pretty 
Bessie. 


“ ‘And now lest our foes our lives 
should betray, 

We clothed ourselves in beggar’s 
array; 

Her jewels she sold, and hither came 
we, 

All our comfort and care was our 
pretty Bessie. 


“ ‘And here have we lived in for¬ 
tune’s despite, 

Though poor, yet contented with 
humble delight; 

Full forty winters thus have I been 
A silly blind beggar of Bethnal 
Green. ’ 


“And here, noble lords, is ended the 
song, 

Of one that once to your own rank 
did belong; 

And thus have you learned a secret 
from me, 

That ne’er had been known but for 
pretty Bessie.” 


Ballads 377 


Now when the fair company every 
one, 

Had heard the strange tale in the 
song he had shown, 

They all were amazed, as well they 
might be, 

Both at the blind beggar and pretty 
Bessie. 

With that the fair bride they all did 
embrace 

Saying, “Since thou art come of an 
honorable race; 

Thy father likewise is of noble degree, 

And thou art well worthy a lady to 
be.” 

Then was the feast ended with joy 
and delight; 

A bridegroom most happy was then 
the young knight; 

In joy and felicity long lived he, 

All with his fair lady, the pretty 
Bessie. 

Unknown . 


KING EDWIN’S FEAST. 

There was feasting in the hall 
And the beards wagged all. 

Oh! the board was heaped with 
food, 

And the ale was like a flood, 

And ’twas bitter winter weather 
When King Edwin and his Eldormen 
and Thanes 

Were a-feasting thus together. 

As the board was heaped with food, 
So the hearth was piled with wood; 
Av, with oaken logs a score; 

And the flames did leap and roar. 
And they cast a ruddy glow 
On King Edwin and his Eldormen 
and Thanes 

As they feasted in a row. 


All at once they were aware 
Of a flutter in the air, 

As a little sparrow came 
In between them and the flame, 
Then a moment flew around, 
While King Edwin and his Eldormen 
and Thanes 

Wondered whither he was bound. 

Then he vanished through the door, 
And they never saw him more; 

But up spoke a noble Thane, 

As a silence seemed to reign, 

And a wonder seemed to fall 
On King Edwin and his Eldormen 
and Thanes 

As they feasted in the hall: 

“What is all this life of ours, 
With its graces and its powers? 

It is like the bird that came 
In between us and the flame, 

Stayed a moment in the room 
With King Edwin and his Eldormen 
and Thanes, 

Then was off into the gloom. 

“So we come out of the night, 

Stay a moment in the light 
Of a warm and pleasant room, 
Then go forth into the gloom; 
Hither somehow tempest-tost, 

0 King Edwin! and you, Eldormen 
and Thanes, 

Then again in darkness lost.” 

Then another silence fell 
And the first who broke the spell 
Was Paulinius, the Christian, and 
he said, 

Bowing low a reverent head 
That was white with many years, 
To King Edwin and his Eldormen 
and Thanes, 

And his words were dim with 
tears: 


Poems for Children 


378 

“Oh! not merely tempest-tost, 

Not again in darkness lost, 

Is the little bird that came 
In between ns and the flame; 

For the bird will find his nest. 
So, King Edwin, and you, Eldormen 
and Thanes, 

Be not your hearts distressed. 

“Not from darkness comes the soul, 
Nor shall darkness be its goal. 

For that, too, there is a nest, 
Whither flying it shall rest 
Evermore. It must be so.” 

Said King Edwin and his Eldormen 
and Thanes: 

“Would to God that we might 
know!” 

John W. Chadwick . 

RODNEY’S RIDE. 

(July 3, 1776) 

In that soft mid-land where the 
breezes bear 

The North and the South on the 
genial air, 

Through the county of Kent, on af¬ 
fairs of state, 

Rode Caesar Rodney, the delegate. 

Burly and big, and bold and bluff, 

Ill his three-cornered hat and coat of 
snuff, 

A foe to King George and the Eng¬ 
lish State, 

Was Ccesar Rodney, the delegate. 

Into Dover village he rode apace, 

And his kinsfolk knew, from his 
anxious face, 

It was matter grave that brought him 
there, 

To the counties three on the Delaware. 


“Money and men we must have,” he 
said, 

“Or the Congress fails and our cause 
is dead; 

Give us both and the King shall not 
work his will. 

We are men, since the blood of 
Bunker Hill! ” 

Comes a rider swift on a panting bay: 

“IIo, Rodney, ho! you must save the 
day, 

For the Congress halts at a deed so 
great, 

And your vote alone may decide its 
fate.” 

Answered Rodney then: “I will ride 
with speed; 

It is Liberty’s stress; it is Freedom’s 
need. 

When stands it?” “To-night. Not 
a moment to spare, 

But ride like the wind from the Dela¬ 
ware. ’ ’ 

“Ho, saddle the black! I’ve but half 
a day, 

And the Congress sits eighty miles 
away— 

And I ’ll be in time, if God grants me 
grace, 

To shake my fist in King George’s 
face.” 

He is up; he is off! and the black 
horse flies 

On the northward road ere the “God¬ 
speed” dies; 

It is gallop and spur, as the leagues 
they clear, 

And the clustering mile-stones move 
a-rear. 

It is two of the clock; and the fleet 
hoofs fling 

The Fieldboro’s dust with a clang 
and a cling; 


Ballads 379 


It is three; and he gallops with slack 
rein where 

The road winds down to the Delaware. 

Pour; and he spurs into New Castle 
town, 

Prom his panting steed he gets him 
down— 

“A fresh one, quick! not a moment’s 
wait!” 

And off speeds Rodney, the delegate. 

It is five; and the beams of the west¬ 
ern sun 

Tinge the spires of the Wilmington 
gold and dun; 

Six; and the dust of Chester Street 

Flies back in a cloud from the cours¬ 
er’s feet. 

It is seven; the horse-boat broad of 
beam, 

At the Schuylkill ferry crawls over 
the stream— 

And at seven-fifteen by the Ritten- 
house clock, 

He flings his reins to the tavern jock. 

The Congress is met; the debate’s be- 
gun, 

And Liberty lags for the vote of 
one— 

When into the hall, not a moment late, 

Walks Caesar Rodney, the delegate. 

Not a moment late! and that half 
day’s ride 

Forwards the world with a mighty 
stride; 

For the act was passed; ere the mid¬ 
night stroke 

O’er the Quaker City its echoes woke. 

At Tyranny’s feet was the gauntlet 
flung; 

“We are free!” all the bells through 
the colonics rung. 


And the sons of the free may recall 
with pride 

The day of Delegate Rodney’s ride. 
Elbridge Streeter Brooks. 


THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT 
MARINER. 

It is an ancient Mariner, 

And he stoppeth one of three. 

“By thy long grey beard and glitter¬ 
ing eye, 

Now wherefore stopp ’st thou me ? 

“The Bridegroom’s doors are opened 
wide, 

And I am next of kin; 

The guests are met, the feast is set: 
May’st hear the merry din.” 

He holds him with his skinny hand, 
“There was a ship,” quoth he. 

“Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard 
loon! ’ ’ 

Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 

He holds him with his glittering eye— 
The Wedding-Guest stood still, 

And listens like a three years child: 
The Mariner hath his will. 

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone; 
He cannot choose but hear; 

And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 

The ship was cheered, the harbor 
cleared, 

Merrily did we drop 
Below the kirk, below the hill, 

Below the lighthouse top. 

The Sun came up upon the left, 

Out of the sea came he! 

And lie shone bright, and on the right 
Went down into the sea. 


Poems for Children 


38° 

Higher and higher every day, 

Till over the mast at noon— 

The Wedding-Guest here beat his 
breast, 

For he heard the loud bassoon. 

The bride hath paced into the hall, 
Bed as a rose is she; 

Nodding their heads before her goes 
The merry minstrelsy. 

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, 
Yet he cannot choose but hear; 

And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner. 

And now the Storm-blast came, and he 
Was tyrannous and strong: 

He struck with his o’ertaking wings, 
And chased us south along. 

With sloping masts and dipping prow, 
As who pursued with yell and blow 
Still treads the shadow of his foe 
And forward bends his head, 

The ship drove fast, loud roared the 
blast, 

And southward aye we fled. 

And now there came both mist and 
snow, 

And it grew wondrous cold: 

And ice, mast-high, came floating by, 
As green as emerald. 

And through the drifts the snowy 
clift 

Did send a dismal sheen: 

Nor shapes of men nor beasts we 
ken— 

The ice was all between. 

The ice was here, the ice was there, 
The ice was all around: 

It cracked and growled, and roared 
and howled, 

Like noises in a swound! 


At length did cross an Albatross: 
Through the fog it came; 

As if it had been a Christian soul, 
We hailed it in God’s name. 

It ate the food it ne’er had eat, 

And round and round it flew. 

The ice did split with a thunder-fit; 
The helmsman steered us through! 

And a good south wind sprung up 
behind; 

The Albatross did follow, 

And every day, for food or play, 
Came to the mariners’ hollo! 

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 
It perched for vespers nine; 

Whiles all the night, through fog- 
smoke white, 

Glimmered the white Moon-shine. 

11 God save thee, ancient Mariner! 
From the fiends, that plague thee 
thus!— 

Why look’st thou so?”—With my 
cross-bow 

I shot the Albatross. 

Part the Second. 

The Sun now rose upon the right: 
Out of the sea came he, 

Still hid in mist, and on the left 
Went down into the sea. 

And the good south wind still blew 
behind, 

But no sweet bird did follow, 

Nor any day, for food or play, 

Came to the mariners’ hollo! 

And I had done an hellish thing, 

And it would work ’em woe: 

For all averred, I had killed the bird 
That made the breeze to blow. 

Ah, wretch! said they, the bird to slay 
That made the breeze to blow! 


Ballads 


Nor dim nor red, like God’s own head, 
The glorious sun uprist: 

Then all averred, I had killed the bird 
That brought the fog and mist. 

’Twas right, said they, such birds to 
slay, 

That bring the fog and mist. 

The fair breeze blew, the white foam 
flew, 

The furrow followed free: 

We were the first that ever burst 
Into that silent sea. 

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt 
down, 

’Twas sad as sad could be; 

And we did speak only to break 
The silence of the sea! 

All in a hot and copper sky. 

The bloody Sun, at noon, 

Right up above the mast did stand, 
No bigger than the Moon. 

Day after day, day after day, 

We stuck, nor breath nor motion, 

As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean. 

Water, water, everywhere, 

And all the boards did shrink; 
Water, water, everywhere, 

Nor any drop to drink. 

The very deep did rot: 0 Christ! 
That ever this should be! 

Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
Upon the slimy sea. 

About, about, in reel and rout 
The death-fires danced at night; 

The water, like a witch’s oils, 

Burnt green, and blue, and white. 


381 

And some in dreams assured were 
Of the spirit that plagued us so; 
Nine fathom deep he had followed us 
From the land of mist and snow. 


And every tongue, through utter 
drought, 

Was withered at the root; 

We could not speak, no more than if 
We had been choked with soot. 


Ah! well-a-day, what evil looks 
Had I from old and young! 
Instead of the cross, the Albatross 
About my neck was hung. 


Part the Third. 

There passed a weary time. Each 
throat 

Was parched, and glazed each eye. 

A weary time! a weary time! 

How gazed each weary eye, 

When looking westward I beheld, 

A something in the sky. 

At first it seemed a little speck, 

And then it seemed a mist: 

It moved and moved, and took at last 
A certain shape, I wist. 

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! 

And still it neared and neared: 

As if it dodged a water-sprite, 

It plunged and tacked and veered. 

With throats unslaked, with black lips 
baked, 

We could not laugh nor wail; 
Through utter drought all dumb we 
stood! 

I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, 
And cried, A sail! a sail! 


Poems for Children 


382 

With throats unslaked, with black lips 
baked, 

Agape they heard me call: 

Gramercy! they for joy did grin, 

And all at once their breath drew in, 
As they were drinking all. 

See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more! 
Hither to work us weal; 

Without a breeze, without a tide, 

She steadies with upright keel! 

The western wave was all a-flame, 
The day was well-nigh done! 

Almost upon the western wave 
Rested the broad bright Sun; 

When that strange shape drove sud¬ 
denly 

Betwixt us and the Sun. 

And straight the Sun was decked with 
bars 

(Heaven’s mother send us grace!) 

As if through a dungeon-grate he 
peered, 

With broad and burning face. 

Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat 
loud.) 

How fast she nears and nears! 

Are those her sails that glance in the 
Sun, 

Like restless gossameres? 

Are those her ribs through which the 
Sun 

Did peer, as through a grate? 

And is that Woman all her crew? 

Is that a Death? and are there two? 

Is Death that Woman’s mate? 

Her lips were red, her looks were free, 
Her locks were yellow as gold; 

Her skin was as white as leprosy, 

The Night-Mare Life-in-Death was she 
Who thicks man’s blood with cold. 


The naked hulk alongside came, 

And the twain were casting dice; 
“The game is done; I’ve won! I’ve 
won! ’ ’ 

Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 

The Sun’s rim dips; the stars rush 
out: 

At one stride comes the dark; 

With far-heard whisper, o’er the sea, 
Off shot the spectre-bark. 

We listened and looked sideways up! 
Fear at my heart, as at a cup, 

My life-blood seemed to sip! 

The stars were dim, and thick the 
night, 

The steersman’s face by his lamp 
gleamed white; 

From the sails the dew did drip— 
Till clomb above the eastern bar 
The horned Moon, with one bright 
star 

Within the nether tip. 

One after one, by the star-dogged 
Moon, 

Too quick for groan or sigh, 

Each turned his face with a ghastly 
pang, 

And cursed me with his eye. 

Four times fifty living men 
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan), 
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, 
They dropped down one by one. 

The souls did from their bodies fly,— 
They fled to bliss or woe! 

And every soul, it passed me by, 

Like the whizz of my cross-bow! 

Part the Fourth. 

“I fear thee, ancient Mariner! 

I fear thy skinny hand! 

And thou art long, and lank, and 
brown, 

As is the ribbed sea-sand. 


Ballads 


“I fear thee, and thy glittering eye, 
And thy skinny hand, so brown.”— 
Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding- 
Guest ! 

This body dropt not down. 

Alone, alone, all, all alone, 

Alone on a wide, wide sea! 

And never a saint took pity on 
My soul in agony. 

The many men, so beautiful; 

And they all dead did lie; 

And a thousand thousand slimy things 
Lived on; and so did I. 

I looked upon the rotting sea, 

And drew my eyes away; 

I looked upon the rotting deck, 

And there the dead men lay. 

I looked to Heaven, and tried to pray, 
But or ever a prayer had gusht, 

A wicked whisper came, and made 
My heart as dry as dust. 

I closed my lids, and kept them close, 
And the balls like pulses beat; 

For the sky and the sea, and the sea 
and the sky, 

Lay like a load on my weary eye, 
And the dead were at my feet. 

The cold sweat melted from their 
limbs, 

Nor rot nor reek did they: 

The look with which they looked on 
me 

Had never passed away. 

An orphan’s curse would drag to 
Hell 

A spirit from on high; 

But oh! more horrible than that 
Is a curse in a dead man’s eye! 
Seven days, seven nights, I saw that 
curse, 

And yet I could not die. 


383 

The moving Moon went up the sky, 
And no where did abide: 

Softly she was going up, 

And a star or two beside— 

Her beams bemocked the sultry maim 
Like April hoar-frost spread; 

But where the ship’s huge shadow lay, 
The charmed water burnt alway 
A still and awful red. 

Beyond the shadow of the ship, 

I watched the water-snakes: 

They moved in tracks of shining 
white, 

And when they reared, the elfish light 
Fell off in hoary flakes. 

Within the shadow of the ship 
I watched their rich attire; 

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, 
They coiled and swam; and every 
track 

Was a flash of golden fire. 

0 happy living things! no tongue 
Their beauty might declare: 

A spring of love gushed from my 
heart, 

And I blessed them unaware! 

Sure my kind saint took pity on me, 
And I blessed them unaware. 

The self-same moment I could pray; 
And from my neck so free 
The Albatross fell off, and sank 
Like lead into the sea. 


Part the Fifth. 

Oh, sleep! it is a gentle thing, 
Beloved from pole to pole! 

To Mary Queen the praise be given! 
She sent the gentle sleep from 
Heaven, 

That slid into my soul. 


Poems for Children 


384 

The silly buckets on the deck, 

That had so long remained, 

I dreamt that they were filled with 
dew; 

And when I awoke, it rained. 

My lips were wet, my throat was cold, 
My garments all were dank; 

Sure I had drunken in my dreams, 
And still my body drank. 

I moved, and could not feel my limbs: 
I was so light—almost 
I thought that I had died in sleep, 
And was a blessed ghost. 

And soon I heard a roaring wind: 

It did not come anear; 

But with its sound it shook the sails, 
That were so thin and sere. 

The upper air burst into life! 

And a hundred fire-flags sheen, 

To and fro they were hurried about! 
And to and fro, and in and out, 

The wan stars danced between. 

And the coming wind did roar more 
loud, 

And the sails did sigh like sedge; 
And the rain poured down from one 
black cloud; 

The Moon was at its edge. 

The thick black cloud was cleft, and 
still 

The Moon was at its side: 

Like waters shot from some high crag, 
The lightning fell with never a jag 
A river steep and wide. 

The loud wind never reached the ship, 
Yet now the ship moved on! 

Beneath the lightning and the Moon 
The dead men gave a groan. 


They groaned, they stirred, they all 
uprose, 

Nor spake, nor moved their eyes; 

It had been strange, even in a dream. 
To have seen those dead men rise. 

The helmsman steered, the ship moved 
on; 

Yet never a breeze up blew; 

The mariners all ’gan work the ropes, 
Where they were wont to do; 

They raised their limbs like lifeless 
tools— 

We were a ghastly crew. 

The body of my brother’s son 
Stood by me, knee to knee! 

The body and I pulled at one rope, 
But he said nought to me. 

“I fear thee, ancient Mariner!” 

Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest! 

’Twas not those souls that fled in pain. 
Which to their corses came again, 

But a troop of spirits blest: 

For when it dawned—they dropped 
their arms, 

And clustered round the mast; 

Sweet sounds rose slowly through 
their mouths, 

And from their bodies passed. 

Around, around, flew each sweet 
sound, 

Then darted to the Sun; 

Slowly the sounds came back again, 
Now mixed, now one by one. 

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 
I heard the sky-lark sing; 

Sometimes all little birds that are, 
How they seem to fill the sea and air 
With their sweet jargoning! 


Ballads 


And now ’twas like all instruments, 
Now like a lonely flute; 

And now it is an angel’s song, 

That makes the Heavens be mute. 

It ceased; yet still the sails made on 
A pleasant noise till noon, 

A noise like of a hidden brook 
In the leafy month of June, 

That to the sleeping woods all night 
Singeth a quiet tune. 

Till noon we quietly sailed on, 

Yet never a breeze did breathe: 
Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 
Moved onward from beneath. 

Under the keel nine fathom deep, 
From the land of mist and snow, 

The spirit slid: and it was he 
That made the ship to go. 

The sails at noon left off their tune, 
And the ship stood still also. 

The Sun, right up above the mast, 
Had fixed her to the ocean : 

But in a minute she ’gan stir, 

With a short uneasy motion— 
Backwards and forwards half her 
length 

With a short uneasy motion. 

Then like a pawing horse let go, 

She made a sudden bound; 

It flung the blood into my head, 

And I fell down in a swound. 

How long in that same fit I lay, 

I have not to declare; 

But ere my living life returned, 

I heard and in my soul discerned 
Two voices in the air. 

“Is it he?” quoth one, “is this the 
man? 

By Him who died on cross, 

With his cruel bow he laid full low, 
The harmless Albatross. 


385 

“The spirit who bideth by himself 
In the land of mist and snow, 

He loved the bird that loved the man 
Who shot him with his bow.” 

The other was a softer voice, 

As soft as honey-dew: 

Quoth he, “The man hath penance 
done, 

And penance more will do. ’ ’ 

Part the Sixth, 
first VOICE. 

But tell me, tell me! speak again, 
Thy soft response renewing— 

What makes that ship drive on so 
fast? 

What is the Ocean doing? 

SECOND VOICE. 

Still as a slave before his lord, 

The Ocean hath no blast; 

His great bright eye most silently 
Up to the Moon is cast— 

If he may know which way to go; 
For she guides him smooth or grim. 
See, brother, see! how graciously 
She looketh down on him. 

FIRST VOICE. 

But why drives on that ship so fast, 
Without or wave or wind? 

SECOND VOICE. 

The air is cut away before, 

And closes from behind. 

Fly, brother, fly! more high, more 
high! 

Or we shall be belated: 

For slow and slow that ship will go, 
When the Mariner’s trance is abated. 


386 Poems for 

I woke, and we were sailing on 
As in a gentle weather: 

Twas night, calm night, the Moon 
was high; 

The dead men stood together. 

All stood together on the deck, 

For a charnel-dungeon fitter: 

All fixed on me their stony eyes, 

That in the Moon did glitter. 

The pang, the curse, with which they 
died, 

Had never passed away: 

I could not draw my eyes from theirs, 
Nor turn them up to pray. 

And now T this spell was snapt: once 
more 

I viewed the ocean green, 

And looked far forth, yet little saw 
Of what had else been seen— 

Like one, that on a lonesome road 
Doth walk in fear and dread, 

And having once turned round walks 
on, 

And turns no more his head; 

Because he knows a frightful fiend 
Doth close behind him tread. 

But soon there breathed a wind on me, 
Nor sound nor motion made: 

Its path was not upon the sea, 

I11 ripple or in shade. 

It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek 
Like a meadow-gale of spring— 

It mingled strangely with my fears, 
Yet it felt like a welcoming. 

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, 

Yet she sailed softly too: 

Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze— 

On me alone it blew. 


Children 

Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed 
The light-house top I see ? 

Is this the hill? is this the kirk? 

Is this my own countree? 

We drifted o’er the harbour-bar, 

And I with sobs did pray— 

O let me be awake, my God! 

Or let me sleep alway. 

The harbour-bar was clear as glass, 

So smoothly it was strewn! 

And on the bay the moonlight lay, 
And the shadow of the moon. 

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less. 
That stands above the rock: 

The moonlight steeped in silentness 
The steady weathercock. 

And the bay was white with silent 
light, 

Till rising from the same, 

Full many shapes, that shadows were, 
In crimson colours came. 

A little distance from the prow 
Those crimson shadows were: 

I turned my eyes upon the deck— 
Oh, Christ! what saw I there! 

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, 
And, by the holy rood! 

A man all light, a seraph-man, 

On every corse there stood. 

This seraph-band, each waved his 
hand, 

It was a heavenly sight! 

They stood as signals to the land, 
Each one a lovely light: 

This seraph-band, each waved his 
hand, 

No voice did they impart— 

No voice; but oh! the silence sank 
Like music on my heart. 


Ballads 


But soon I heard the dash of oars, 

I heard the Pilot’s cheer; 

My head was turned perforce away, 
And I saw a boat appear. 

The Pilot, and the Pilot’s boy, 

I heard them coming fast; 

Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy 
The dead men could not blast. 

I saw a third—I heard his voice: 

It is the Hermit good! 

He singeth loud his godly hymns 
That he makes in the wood. 

He ’ll shrive my soul, he ’ll wash away 
The Albatross’s blood. 


Part the Seventh. 

This Hermit good lives in that wood 
Which slopes down to the sea. 

How loudly his sweet voice he rears! 
He loves to talk with marineres 
That come from a far countree. 

He kneels at morn, and noon, and 
eve— 

He hath a cushion plump; 

It is the moss that wholly hides 
That rotted old oak stump. 

The skiff-boat neared: I heard them 
talk, 

‘ ‘ Why this is strange, I trow! 

Where are these lights so many and 
fair, 

That signal made but now?” 

‘ ‘ Strange, by my faith! ’ ’ the Hermit 
said— 

“And they answered not our cheer! 
The planks look warped! and see 
those sails 

How thin they are and sere! 

I never saw aught like to them, 

Unless perchance it were 


387 

“Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
My forest-brook along; 

When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 
And the owlet whoops to the wolf 
below, 

That eats the she-wolf’s young.” 

‘ ‘ Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look— 
(The Pilot made reply) 

I am a-feared”—“Push on, push 
on! ” 

Said the Hermit cheerily. 

The boat came closer to the ship, 

But I nor spake nor stirred; 

The boat came close beneath the ship. 
And straight a sound was heard. 

Under the water it rumbled on, 

Still louder and more dread; 

It reached the ship, it split the bay; 
The ship went down like lead. 

Stunned by that loud and dreadful 
sound, 

Which sky and ocean smote, 

Like one that hath been seven days 
drowned 

My body lay afloat; 

But swift as dreams myself I found 
Within the Pilot’s boat. 

Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, 
The boat spun round and round; 

And all was still, save that the hill 
Was telling of the sound. 

I moved my lips—the Pilot shrieked 
And fell down in a fit; 

The holy Hermit raised his eyes, 

And prayed where he did sit. 

I took the oars; the Pilot’s boy, 

Who now doth crazy go, 

Laughed loud and long, and all the 
while 


Poems for Children 


388 

His eyes went to and fro. 

“Ha! ha!” quoth he, “full plain I 
see, 

The Devil knows how to row. ’ ’ 

And now, all in my own countree 
I stood on the firm land! 

The Hermit stepped forth from the 
boat 

And scarcely he could stand. 

“0 shrieve me, shrieve me, holy 
man! ’’ 

The Hermit crossed his brow, 

“Say quick,” quoth he, “I bid thee 
say— 

What manner of man art thou?” 

Forthwith this frame of mine was 
wrenched 

With a woeful agony, 

Which forced me to begin my tale; 
And then it left me free. 

Since then, at an uncertain hour, 
That agony returns; 

And till my ghastly tale is told 
This heart within me burns. 

I pass, like night, from land to land; 
I have strange power of speech; 

The moment that his face I see, 

I know the man that must hear me: 

To him my tale I teach. 

What loud uproar bursts from that 
door! 

The wedding guests are there: 

But in the garden bower the bride 
And bride-maids singing are; 

And hark the little vesper bell, 
Which biddeth me to prayer! 

0 Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been 
Alone on a wide, wide sea; 

So lonely ’twas that God Himself 
Scarce seemed there to be. 


0 sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
’Tis sweeter far to me, 

To walk together to the kirk, 

With a goodly company!— 

To walk together to the kirk, 

And all together pray, 

While each to his great Father bends, 
Old men and babes and loving friends, 
And youths and maidens gay! 

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell 
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest! 

He prayeth well, who loveth well 
Both man and bird and beast. 

He prayeth best, who loveth best 
All things both great and small: 

For the dear God who loveth us, 

He made and loveth all. 

The Mariner whose eye is bright, 
Whose beard with age is hoar, 

Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest 
Turned from the bridegroom’s door. 

He went like one that hath been, 
stunned, 

And is of sense forlorn; 

A sadder and a wiser man, 

He rose the morrow morn. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge . 


LORD LOVEL. 

Lord Lovel he stood at his castle gate, 
Combing his milk-white steed; 
When up came Lady Nancy Belle 
To wish her lover good speed, speed, 
To wish her lover good speed. 

“Where are you going, Lord Lovel?” 
she said, 

“Oh! where are you going?” said 
she; 


Ballads 


389 


“I’m going, my Lady Nancy Belle, 

Strange countries for to see, to see, 

Strange countries for to see! ” 

“When will you be back, Lord 
Lovel?” said she; 

“Oh! when will you come back?” 
said she; 

“In a year or two—or three at the 
most, 

I’ll return to my fair Nancy—cy, 

I ’ll return to my fair Nancy. ’ ’ 

But he had not been gone a year and 
a day, 

Strange countries for to see, 

When languishing thoughts came into 
his head, 

Lady Nancy Belle he would go see, 
see, 

Lady Nancy Belle he would go see. 

So he rode, and he rode on his milk- 
white steed, 

Till he came to London-town; 

And there he heard St. Pancras’ bells, 

And the people all mourning round, 
round, 

And the people all mourning round. 

“Oh! what is the matter?” Lord 
Lovel he said, 

“ Oh! what is the matter ? ’ ’ said he; 

“A lord’s lady is dead,” a woman 
replied, 

* 1 And some call her Lady Nanc ^—cf 

And some call her Lady Nanc£.” 

So he ordered the grave to be opened 
wide, 

And the shroud he turned down, 

And there he kissed her clay-cold lips, 

Till the tears came trickling down, 
down, 

Till the tears came trickling down. 


Lady Nancy she died as it might be 
to-day, 

Lord Lovel he died as to-morrow; 

Lady Nancy she died out of pure, 
pure grief, 

Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow, 
sorrow, 

Lord Lovel he died out of sorrow. 

Lady Nancy was laid in Saint Pan- 
eras’ church, 

Lord Lovel was laid in the choir; 

And out of her bosom there grew a 
red rose, 

And out of her lover’s a brier, 
brier, 

And out of her lover’s a brier. 

They grew and they grew, to the 
church steeple too, 

And then they could grow no 
higher; 

So there they entwined in a true 
lover’s knot, 

For all lovers true to admire—mire, 

For all lovers true to admire. 

Unknown. 

SOLOMON AND THE BEES. 

When Solomon was reigning in his 
glory, 

Unto his throne the Queen of Sheba 
came— 

(So in the Talmud you may read the 
story) — 

Drawn by the magic of the mon¬ 
arch’s fame, 

To see the splendors of his court, and 
bring 

Some fitting tribute to the mighty 
King. 

Not this alone: much had her highness 
heard 

What flowers of learning graced 
the royal speech; 


Poems for Children 


39 ° 

What gems of wisdom dropped with 
every word; 

What wholesome lessons he was 
wont to teach 

In pleasing proverbs; and she wished, 
in sooth, 

To know if Rumor spoke the simple 
truth. 

Besides, the Queen had heard (which 
piqued her most) 

How through the deepest riddles he 
could spy; 

How all the curious arts that women 
boast 

Were quite transparent to his pierc¬ 
ing eye; 

And so the Queen had come—a royal 
guest— 

To put the sage’s cunning to the test. 

And straight she held before the 
monarch’s view, 

In either hand, a radiant wreath of 
flowers; 

The one bedecked with every charm¬ 
ing hue, 

Was newly culled from Nature’s 
choicest bowers; 

The other, no less fair in every part, 

Was the rare product of divinest Art. 

‘‘Which is the true, and which the 
false?” she said. 

Great Solomon was silent. All 
amazed, 

Each wondering courtier shook his 
puzzled head; 

While at the garlands long the mon¬ 
arch gazed, 

As one who sees a miracle, and fain 

For very rapture, ne’er would speak 
again. 

“Which is the true?” once more the 
woman asked, 

Pleased at the fond amazement of 
the King; 


‘ ‘ So wise a head should not be hardly 
tasked, 

Most learned Liege, with such a 
trivial thing!” 

But still the sage was silent; it was 
plain 

A deepening doubt perplexed the 
royal brain. 

While thus he pondered, presently he 
sees, 

Hard by the casement—so the story 
goes— 

A little band of busy bustling bees, 

Hunting for honey in a withered 
rose. 

The monarch smiled, and raised his 
royal head; 

“Open the window!”—that was all 
he said. 

The window opened at the King’s 
command; 

Within the rooms the eager insects 
flew, 

And sought the flowers in Sheba’s 
dexter hand! 

And so the King and all the court¬ 
iers knew 

That wreath was Nature’s; and the 
baffled Queen 

Returned to tell the wonders she had 

seen. 

My story teaches (every tale should 
bear 

A fitting moral) that the wise may 
find 

In trifles light as atoms of the air 

Some useful lesson to enrich the 
mind— 

Some truth designed to profit or to 
please— 

As Israel’s King learned wisdom from 
the bees. 


John Godfrey Saxe. 


Ballads 


THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON 
PRIORY. 

Young Romilly through Barden 
Woods 

Is ranging high and low, 

And holds a greyhound in a leash, 

To let slip on buck or doe. 

The pair have reached that fearful 
chasm, 

How tempting to bestride! 

For lordly Wharf is there pent in 

With rocks on either side. 

This striding place is called “the 
Strid, ” 

A name which it took of yore; 

A thousand years hath it borne that 
name, 

And shall a thousand more. 

And hither is young Romilly come; 

And what may not forbid 

That he, perhaps for the hundredth 
time, 

Should bound across the Strid ? 

He sprang in glee—for what cared he 

That the river was strong, and the 
rocks were steep ? 

But the greyhound in the leash hung 
back, 

And checked him in his leap! 

The boy is in the arms of Wharf! 

And strangled with a merciless 
force— 

For never more was young Romilly 
seen 

Till he rose a lifeless corse! 

Now there is a stillness in the vale, 

And long unspeaking sorrow; 

Wharf shall be to pitying hearts 

A name more sad than Yarrow. 


39 1 

If for a lover the lady wept, 

A solace she might borrow 

From death, and from the passion of 
death, 

Old Wharf might heal her sorrow. 

She weeps not for the wedding-day 
Which was to be to-morrow; 

Her hope was a further-looking hope, 
And hers is a mother’s sorrow. 

He was a tree that stood alone, 

And proudly did its branches wave; 

And the root of this delightful tree 
Was in her husband’s grave. 

Long, long in darkness did she sit, 
And her first words were, “Let 
there be 

In Bolton, on the field of Wharf, 

A stately Priory!” 

The stately Priory was reared, 

And Wharf, as he moved along, 

To matins joined a mournful voice, 
Nor failed at even-song. 

And the lady prayed in heaviness 
That looked not for relief; 

But slowly did her succour come, 

And patience to her grief. 

Oh! there is never sorrow of heart 
That shall lack a timely end, 

If but to God we turn, and ask 
Of Him to be our Friend. 

William Wordsworth. 

MARY AMBREE. 

When captains courageous, whom 
death could not daunt, 

Did march to the siege of the city of 
Gaunt, 

They mustered their soldiers by two 
and by three, 

And the foremost in battle was Mary 
Ambree. 



Poems for Children 


39 2 

When brave Sir John Major was slain 
in her sight, 

Who was her true lover, her joy, and 
delight, 

Because he was slain most treacher¬ 
ously, 

Then vowed to revenge him, Mary 
Ambree. 

She clothed herself from top to the 
toe 

In buff of the bravest, most seemly to 
show; 

A fair shirt of mail then slipped on 
she; 

Was not this a brave bonny lass, Mary 
Ambree ? 

A helmet of proof she straight did 
provide, 

A strong arming sword she girt by 
her side, 

On her hand a goodly fair gauntlet 
put she; 

Was not this a brave bonny lass, Mary 
Ambree ? 

“My soldiers,” she saith, “so valiant 
and bold, 

Now follow your captain, whom you 
do behold; 

Still foremost in battle myself will I 
be!” 

Was not this a brave bonny lass, Mary 
Ambree ? 

Then cried out her soldiers, and loud 
did they say, 

“So well thou becomes! this gallant 
array, 

Thy heart and thy weapons so well do 
agree, 

There was none ever like Mary 
Ambree ! 9 9 


She cheered her soldiers, that foughten 
for life, 

With ancient and standard, with 
drum and with fife, 

With brave clanging trumpets, that 
sounded so free; 

Was not this a brave bonny lass, Mary 
Ambree ? 


* 1 Before I will see the worst of you all 
To come into danger of death or of 
thrall, 

This hand and this life I will venture 
so free; ’’ 

Was not this a brave bonny lass, Mary 
Ambree ? 


She led up her soldiers in battle ar¬ 
ray, 

’Gainst three times their number, by 
break of the day; 

Seven hours in skirmish continued 
she; 

Was not this a brave bonny lass, Mary 
Ambree ? 


She filled the skies with smoke of her 
shot, 

And her enemies’ bodies with bullets 
so hot; 

For one of her own men a score killed 
she; 

Was not this a brave bonny lass, Mary 
Ambree ? 

And when a false gunner, to spoil her 
intent, 

Away with her pellets and powder 
had sent, 

Straight with her keen weapons she 
slashed him in three; 

Was not this a brave bonny lass, Mary 
Ambree ? 


Ballads 


Being falsely betrayed for lucre of 
hire, 

At length she was forced to make a 
retire; 

Then her soldiers into a strong castle 
drew she; 

"Was not this a brave bonny lass, Mary 
Ambree ? 


Her foes they beset her on every side, 
As thinking close siege she could 
never abide; 

To beat down the walls they all did 
decree; 

But stoutly defied them brave Mary 
Ambree. 


Then took she her sword and her tar¬ 
get in hand, 

And mounting the walls undaunted 
did stand, 

There daring their captains to match 
any three, 

0, what a brave captain was Mary 
Ambree! 


“Now say, English captain, what 
would’st thou give 

To ransom thyself, which else must 
not live? 

Come, yield thyself quickly, or slain 
thou must be.” 

Then smiled sweetly brave Mary 
Ambree. 


“Ye captains courageous, of valour so 
bold, 

Whom thinkest vou before you now 
do behold?” 

“A knight, sir, of England, and cap¬ 
tain so free, 

Who shortly with us a prisoner must 
be.” 


393 

“No captain of England; behold in 
your sight, 

Though attired as a soldier, I am 
truly no knight; 

No Knight, sirs of England, nor cap¬ 
tain you see, 

But a poor simple lass, called Mary 
Ambree. ’ ’ 

“But art thou a woman as thou dost 
declare, 

Whose valour hath proved so un¬ 
daunted in war? 

If England doth yield such brave 
lasses as thee, 

Full well may they conquer, fair Mary 
Ambree! ’ ’ 

Unknown. 


THE LAY OF THE LAST 
MINSTREL. 

The way was long, the wind was cold, 
The Minstrel was infirm and old; 

His withered cheek and tresses gray 
Seemed to have known a better day: 
The harp, his sole remaining joy, 

Was carried by an orphan boy: 

The last of all the Bards was he, 

Who sung of Border chivalry. 

For, well-a-day! their date was fled, 
His tuneful brethren all were dead; 
And he, neglected and oppressed, 
Wished to be with them, and at rest. 
No more, on prancing palfrey borne, 
He carolled, light as lark at morn; 

No longer courted and caressed, 
High-placed in hall, a welcome guest, 
He poured, to lord and lady gay, 

The unpremeditated lay; 

Old times were changed—old manners 
gone— 

A stranger filled the Stuarts’ throne. 

The bigots of the iron time 

Had called his harmless art—a crime. 



394 Poems for Children 


A wandering harper, scorned and 
poor, 

He begged his bread from door to 
door; 

And tuned, to please a peasant’s ear, 
The harp, a king had loved to hear. 
He passed, where Newark’s stately 
tower 

Looks out from Yarrow’s birchen 
bower: 

The Minstrel gazed with wishful eye— 
No humbler resting-place was nigh. 
With hesitating step, at last, 

The embattled portal-arch he passed; 
Whose ponderous grate and massy bar 
Had oft rolled back the tide of war, 
But never closed the iron door 
Against the desolate and poor. 

The Duchess marked his weary pace, 
His timid mien and reverend face; 
And bade her page the menials tell 
That they should tend the old man 
well;— 

For she had known adversity, 

Though born in such a high degree; 
In pride of power, in beauty’s bloom, 
Had wept o’er Monmouth’s bloody 
tomb. 

When kindness had his wants sup¬ 
plied, 

And the old man was gratified, 

Began to rise his minstrel pride; 

And he began to talk, anon, 

Of good Earl Francis, dead and gone; 
And of Earl Walter—rest him God!— 
A braver ne’er to battle rode: 

And how full many a tale he knew 
Of the old warriors of Buccleugh; 
And, would the noble Duchess- deign 
To listen to an old man’s strain, 
Though stiff his hand, his voice 
though weak, 

He thought, even yet,—the sooth to 
speak,— 

That if she loved the harp to hear, 

He could make music to her ear. 

The humble boon was soon obtained; 


The aged Minstrel audience gained; 
But when he reached the room of 
state, 

Where she, with all her ladies, sat, 
Perchance he wished his boon denied; 
For, when to tune his harp he tried, 
His trembling hand had lost the ease 
Which marks security to please; 

And scenes, long past, of joy and 
pain, 

Came wildering o’er his'aged brain;— 
He tried to tune his harp, in vain. 
Amid the strings his fingers strayed, 
And an uncertain warbling made; 
And, oft, he shook his hoary head. 
But when he caught the measure 
wild, 

The old man raised his face, and 
smiled; 

And lighted up his faded eye, 

With all a poet’s ecstasy! 

In varying cadence, soft or strong, 

He swept the sounding chords along; 
The present scene, the future lot, 

His toils, his wants, were all forgot; 
Cold diffidence, and age’s frost, 

In the full tide of soul were lost; 
Each blank in faithless memory’s 
void, 

The poet’s glowing thought supplied; 
And, while his harp responsive rung, 
’Twas thus the latest minstrel sung:— 

‘ ‘ Breathes there the man, with soul so 
dead,— 

Who never to himself hath said, 

This is my own, my native land!— 
Whose heart hath ne’er within him 
burned, 

As home his footsteps he hath turned 
From wandering on a foreign strand? 
If such there breathe, go—mark him 
well; 

For him, no minstrel raptures swell: 
High though his titles, proud his 
name, 

Boundless his wealth, as wish can 
claim; 


Ballads 


Despite those titles, power and pelf, 
The wretch, concentred all in self, 
Living, shall forfeit fair renown, 
And, doubly dying, shall go down 
To the vile dust from whence he 
sprung, 

Unwept, unhonoured, and unsung! ’ ’ 

Walter Scott . 

LOCHINVAR. 

0, young Lochinvar is come out of 
the west, 

Through all the wide Border his steed 
was the best, 

And save his good broadsword he 
weapons had none; 

He rode all unarmed, and he rode all 
alone. 

So faithful in love, and so dauntless 
in war, 

There never was knight like the young 
Lochinvar. 

He stayed not for brake, and he 
stopped not for stone, 

He swam the Eske river where ford 
there was none; 

But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, 
The bride had consented, the gallant 
came late: 

For a laggard in love, and a dastard 
in war, 

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave 
Lochinvar. 

So boldly he entered the Netherby 
hall, 

Among bride’s-men and kinsmen, and 
brothers and all; 

Then spoke the bride’s father, his 
hand on his sword 
(For the poor craven bridegroom said 
never a word), 

“0 come ye in peace here, or come 
ye in war, 

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord 
Lochinvar V* 


395 

‘ ‘ I long wooed your daughter, my suit 
you denied;— 

Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs 
like its tide— 

And now I am come, with this lost 
love of mine, 

To lead but one measure, drink one 
cup of wine. 

There are maidens in Scotland more 
lovely by far, 

That would gladly be bride to the 
young Lochinvar. ’ ’ 

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight 
took it up, 

He quaffed off the wine, and he threw 
down the cup, 

She looked down to blush, and she 
looked up to sigh, 

With a smile on her lips and a tear in 
her eye. 

He took her soft hand, ere her mother 
could bar,— 

“Now tread we a measure!” said 
young Lochinvar. 

So stately his form, and so lovely her 
face, 

That never a hall such a galliard did 
grace; 

While her mother did fret, and her 
father did fume, 

And the bridegroom stood dangling 
his bonnet and plume; 

And the bride-maidens whispered, 
“ ’Twere better by far 

To have matched our fair cousin with 
young Lochinvar.” 

One touch to her hand, and one word 
in her ear, 

When they reached the hall door, and 
the charger stood near; 

So light to the croupe the fair lady he 
swung, 

So light to the saddle before her he 
sprung! 


Poems for Children 


39 6 

* ‘ She is won! we are gone, over bank, 
bush, and scaur; 

They ’ll have fleet steeds that follow, ’ ’ 
quoth young Lochinvar. 

There was mounting ’mong Graemes 
of the Netherby clan; 

Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, 
they rode and they ran; 

There was racing, and chasing, on 
Cannobie Lee, 

But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er 
did they see. 

So daring in love, and so dauntless in 
war, 

Have ye e’er heard of gallant like 
young Lochinvar? 

Walter Scott. 


THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM. 

It was a summer evening, 

Old Kaspar’s work was done, 

And he before his cottage door 
Was sitting in the sun; 

And by him sported on the green, 

His little grandchild, Wilhelmine. 

She saw her brother Peterkin 
Roll something large and round, 
That he beside the rivulet 
In playing there had found; 

She ran to ask what he had found, 
That was so large, and smooth, and 
round. 

Old ICaspar took it from the boy, 
Who stood expectant by; 

And then the old man shook his head, 
And with a natural sigh— 

“ ’Tis some poor fellow’s skull,” said 
he, 

“Who fell in the great victory. 


“I find them in my garden, for 
There’s many hereabout; 

And often when I go to plough 
The ploughshare turns them out; 
For many thousand men,” said he, 
“Were slain in that great victory.” 

“Now tell us what ’twas all about,” 
Young Peterkin, he cries, 

And little Wilhelmine looks up 
With wonder-waiting eyes, 

“Now tell us all about the war, 

And what they killed each other for?” 

“It was the English,” Kaspar cried, 
“Who put the French to rout; 

But what they kill’d each other for 
I could not well make out. 

But everybody said,” quoth he, 
“That ’twas a famous victory! 

“My father lived at Blenheim then, 
Yon little stream hard by; 

They burn’d his dwelling to the 
ground, 

And he was forced to fly; 

So with his wife and child he fled, 
Nor had he where to rest his head! 

“With fire and sword the country 
round 

Was wasted far and wide; 

And many a childing mother then 
And new-born baby died! 

But things like that, you know, must 
be 

At every famous victory. 

“They say it was a shocking sight 
After the field was won; 

For many thousand bodies here 
Lay rotting in the sun! 

But things like that, you know, must 
be 

After a famous victory. 


Ballads 


397 


‘Great praise the Duke of Marlbor¬ 
ough won, 

And our good Prince Eugene/’ 
‘Why, ’twas a very wicked thing!” 

Said little Wilhelmine. 

‘Nay, nay, my little girl,” quoth he, 
‘ It was a famous victory! 

‘And everybody praised the Duke 
Who this great fight did win.” 
‘But what good came of it at last?” 

Quoth little Peterkin. 

‘Why, that I cannot tell,” said he, 
‘But ’twas a famous victory.” 

Robert Southey. 


THE PALMER. 

‘ ‘ Open the door, some pity to show! 
Keen blows the northern wind! 
The glen is white with drifted snow, 
And the path is hard to find. 

“No outlaw seeks your castle gate, 
Prom chasing the king’s deer, 
Though even an outlaw’s wretched 
state 

Might claim compassion here. 

“A weary Palmer, worn and weak, 

I wander for my sin. 

0, open, for Our Lady’s sake! 

A pilgrim’s blessing win! 

“The hare is crouching in her form, 
The hart beside the hind; 

An aged man amid the storm, 

No shelter can I find. 

“ You hear the Ettrick’s sullen roar, 
Dark, deep, and strong is he, 
And I must for the Ettrick o’er, 
Unless you pity me. 


“The iron gate is bolted hard, 

At which I knock in vain; 

The owner’s heart is closer barr’d 
Who hears me thus complain. 

“Farewell, farewell! and Heaven 
grant, 

When old and frail you be, 

You never may the shelter want, 
That’s now denied to me!” 

The Ranger on his couch lay warm, 
And heard him plead in vain; 
But oft, amid December’s storm, 
He’ll hear that voice again. 

For lo, when through the vapours 
dank 

Morn shone on Ettrick fair, 

A corpse amid the alders rank, 

The Palmer weltered there. 

Walter Scott. 


THE INCHCAPE ROCK. 

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, 

The ship was as still as she could be; 

Her sails from heaven received no 
motion, 

Her keel was steady in the ocean. 

Without either sign or sound of their 
shock, 

The waves flow’d over the Inchcape 
Rock; 

So little they rose, so little they fell, 

They did not move the Inchcape bell. 

The good Abbot of Aberbrothok 

Had placed that bell on the Inchcape 
Rock; 

On a buoy in the storm it floated and 
swung, 

And over the waves its warning rung. 


Poems for Children 


39 8 

When the rock was hid by the surge’s 
swell, 

The mariners heard the warning bell: 
And then they knew the perilous rock, 
And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok. 

The sun in heaven was shining gay, 
All things were joyful on that day; 
The sea-birds scream’d as they 
wheel’d around, 

And there was joyance in their sound. 

The buoy of the Inchcape bell was 
seen, 

A darker speck on the ocean green; 
Sir Ralph the Rover walk’d his deck, 
And he fixed his eye on the darker 
speck. 

He felt the cheering power of spring, 
It made him whistle, it made him 
sing; 

His heart was mirthful to excess— 
But the Rover’s mirth was wicked¬ 
ness. 

His eyes were on the Inchcape float : 
Quoth he, “My men, put out the boat, 
And row me to the Inchcape Rock, 
And I’ll plague the Abbot of Aber¬ 
brothok. ’’ 

The boat is lower’d, the boatmen row, 
And to the Inchcape Rock they go; 
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, 
And he cut the bell from the Inchcape 
float. 

Down sunk the bell with a gurgling 
sound— 

The bubbles rose and burst around; 
Quoth Sir Ralph, “The next who 
comes to the Rock 

Won’t bless the Abbot of Aber¬ 
brothok.” 


Sir Ralph the Rover sail’d away; 

He scoured the seas for many a day; 

And, now grown rich with plunder’d 
store, 

He steers his course for Scotland’s 
shore. 

So thick a haze o’erspreads the sky, 

They cannot see the sun on high; 

The wind hath blown a gale all day, 

At evening it hath died away. 

On the deck the Rover takes his stand, 

So dark it is they see no land. 

Quoth Sir Ralph, “It will be lighter 
soon, 

For there is the dawn of the rising 
moon. ’ ’ 

“Canst hear,” said one, “thebreakers 
roar ? 

For methinks we should be near the 
shore. 

Now where we are I cannot tell, 

But I wish I could hear the Inchcape 
bell.” 

They hear no sound—the swell is 
strong; 

Though the wind hath fallen they 
drift along 

Till the vessel strikes with a shivering 
shock— 

“Mercy! it is the Inchcape Rock!” 

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair, 

And beat his breast in his despair: 

The waves rush in on every side, 

And the ship sinks down beneath the 
tide. 

Robert Southey. 

THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS. 

It was the schooner Hesperus, 

That sailed the wintry sea; 

And the skipper had taken his little 
daughter, 

To bear him company. 


Ballads 


Blue were her eyes, as the fairy-flax, 
Her cheeks like the dawn of day, 
And her bosom white as the hawthorn 
buds, 

That ope in the month of May. 

The skipper he stood beside the helm, 
His pipe was in his mouth; 

And he watched how the veering flaw 
did blow 

The smoke now West, now South. 

Then up and spake an old Sailor, 

Had sailed the Spanish Main: 

“I pray thee, put into yonder port, 
For I fear a hurricane. 

“Last night, the moon had a golden 
ring, 

And to-night no moon we see!” 

The skipper, he blew a whiff from his 
pipe, 

And a scornful laugh laughed he. 

Colder and louder blew the wind, 

A gale from the North-east; 

The snow fell hissing in the brine, 

And the billows frothed like yeast. 

Down came the storm, and smote 
amain 

The vessel in its strength; 

She shuddered and paused, like a 
frightened steed, 

Then leaped her cable’s length. 

‘ 1 Come hither! come hither! my little 
daughter, 

And do not tremble so; 

For I can Aveather the roughest gale, 
That ever wind did blow.” 

He wrapped her warm in his seaman *s 
coat, 

Against the stinging blast; 

He cut a rope from a broken spar 
And bound her to the mast. 


399 

“O father! I hear the church-bells 
ring, 

0 say, what may it be ? ’ ’ 

“ ’Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound 
coast!’ *— 

And he steered for the open sea. 

“0 father! I hear the sound of guns, 

0 say, what may it be ? ” 

“Some ship in distress, that cannot 
live 

In such an angry sea! ’ * 

11 0 father! I see a gleaming light, 

0 say, what may it be?” 

But the father answered never a 
word, 

A frozen corpse was he. 

Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, 

With his face turned to the skies; 

The lantern gleamed through the 
gleaming snow 

On his fixed and glassy eyes. 

Then the maiden clasped her hands, 
and prayed 

That saved she might be; 

And she thought of Christ, who stilled 
the waves, 

On the Lake of Galilee. 

And fast through the midnight dark 
and drear, 

Through the whistling sleet and 
snow, 

Like a sheeted ghost, the vessel swept 

Towards the reef of Norman’s Woe. 

And ever the fitful gusts between 

A sound came from the land; 

It was the sound of the trampling 
surf, 

On the rocks and the hard sea-sand. 


Poems for Children 


400 

The breakers were right beneath her 
bows, 

She drifted a weary wreck, 

And a whooping billow swept the 
crew 

Like icicles from her deck. 

She struck where the white and fleecy 
waves 

Looked soft as carded wool, 

But the cruel rocks, they gored her 
side, 

Like the horns of an angry bull. 

Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in 
ice, 

With the masts, went by the board; 

Like a vessel of glass, she stove and 
sank, 

Ho! ho! the breakers roared! 

At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, 

A fisherman stood aghast, 

To see the form of a maiden fair, 

Lashed close to a drifting mast. 

The salt sea was frozen on her breast, 

The salt tears in her eyes; 

And he saw her hair, like the brown 
sea-weed, 

O 11 the billows fall and rise. 

Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, 

In the midnight and the snow! 

Christ save us all from a death like 
this, 

On the reef of Norman’s Woe! 
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 

SIR HUMPHREY GILBERT. 

Southward with fleet of ice 

Sailed the corsair death; 

Wild and fast blew the blast, 

And the east wind was his breath. 


His lordly ships of ice 
Glistened in the sun, 

On each side like pennons wide 
Flashing crystal streamlets run. 

His sails of white sea-mist 
Dripped with a silver rain, 

But where he passed there was cast 
Leaden shadows 0 ’er the main. 

Eastward from Campobello 
Sir Humphrey Gilbert sailed, 

Three days or more eastward he bore, 
Then, alas! the land-wind failed. 

Alas! the land-wind failed, 

And ice-cold grew the night, 

And never more on sea or shore. 
Should Sir Humphrey see the light. 

He sat upon the deck, 

The Book was in his hand, 

“Do not fear! Heaven is as near,” 

He said, ‘'by water as by land.” 

In the first watch of the night 
Without a signal’s sound 
Out of the sea mysteriously, 

The fleet of death rose all around. 

The moon and the evening star 
Were hanging in the shrouds. 
Every mast as it passed, 

Seemed to rake the passing clouds. 

They grappled with their prize 
At midnight black and cold, 

As of a rock was the shock, 

Heavily the ground-swell rolled. 

Southward through day and dark, 
They drift in close embrace, 

With mist and rain to the Spanish 
Main, 

Yet there seems no change of place. 


Ballads 


Southward forever southward 
They drift through dark and day, 
And like a dream, in the Gulf Stream, 
Sinking, vanish all away. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow . 


FATHER WILLIAM. 

“You are old, Father William,” the 
young man cried; 

“The few locks that are left you 
are gray: 

You are hale, Father William, a 
hearty old man; 

Now tell me the reason, I pray.” 

“In the days of my youth,” Father 
William replied, 

“I remembered that youth would 
fly fast; 

And abused not my health and my 
vigour at first, 

That I never might need them at 
last.” 

“You are old, Father William,” the 
young man cried, 

‘ ‘ And pleasures with youth pass 
away; 

And yet you lament not the days that 
are gone; 

Now tell me the reason, I pray.” 

“In the days of my youth,” Father 
William replied, 

“I remembered that youth could 
not last; 

I thought of the future, whatever I 
did, 

That I never might grieve for the 
past, ’’ 

“You are old, Father William,” the 
young man cried, 

“And life must be hastening away; 


401 

You are cheerful, and love to converse 
upon death; 

Now tell me the reason, I pray.” 

‘ ‘ I am cheerful, young man, ’ ’ Father 
William replied; 

“Let the cause thy attention en¬ 
gage; 

In the days of my youth I remem¬ 
bered my God, 

And He hath not forgotten my 
age!” 

Robert Southey. 

BALLAD OF EARL HALDAN’S 
DAUGHTER. 

A. D. 1400 

It was Earl Haldan’s daughter, 

She looked across the sea; 

She looked across the water, 

And long and loud laughed she: 
“The locks of six princesses 
Must be my marriage fee: 

So, hey, bonny boat, and ho, bonny 
boat, 

Who comes a-wooing me!” 

It was Earl Haldan’s daughter, 

She walked along the sand, 
When she was aware of a knight so 
fair, 

Come sailing to the land. 

His sails were all of velvet, 

His mast of beaten gold, 

And ‘ ‘ Hey, bonny boat, and ho, bonny 
boat, 

Who saileth here so bold?” 

“The locks of five princesses 
I won beyond the sea; 

I shore their golden tresses 
To fringe a cloak for thee. 

One handful yet is wanting, 

But one of all the tale; 

So, hey, bonny boat, and ho, bonny 
boat, 

Furl up thy velvet sail!” 


Poems for Children 


402 

He leapt into the water, 

That rover young and bold; 

He gript Earl Haldan’s daughter, 
He shore her locks of gold: 

“Go weep, go weep, proud maiden, 
The tale is -full to-day. 

Now, hey, bonny boat, and ho, bonny 
boat, 

Sail Westward ho, and away!” 

Charles Kingsley. 


BETH GELERT. 

The spearman heard the bugle sound, 
And cheer ’ly smiled the morn; 

And many a brach, and many a 
hound, 

Attend Llewellyn’s horn. 

# 

And still he blew a louder blast, 

And gave a louder cheer; 

“Come, Gelert, why art thou the last 
Llewellyn’s horn to hear? 

‘ ‘ Oh, where does faithful Gelert roam, 
The flower of all his race. 

So true, so brave—a lamb at home, 

A lion in the chase.” 

That day Llewellyn little loved 
The chase of hart or hare, 

And scant and small the booty proved, 
For Gelert was not there. 

Unpleased, Llewellyn homeward hied, 
When, near the portal seat, 

His truant Gelert he espied, 
Bounding his lord to greet. 

But when he gained the castle door, 
Aghast the chieftain stood; 

The hound was smeared with gouts of 
gore, 

His lips and fangs ran blood! 


Llewellyn gazed with wild surprise: 

Unused such looks to meet, 

His favorite checked his joyful guise, 
And crouched, and licked his feet. 

Onward in haste Llewellyn passed 
(And on went Gelert, too), 

And still where’er his eyes were cast, 
Flesh blood-gouts shocked his view! 

0 ’erturned his infant’s bed he found, 
The bloodstained cover rent; 

And all around the walls and ground 
With recent blood besprent. 

He called his child—no voice replied; 

He searched with terror wild; 
Blood! blood! he found on every side, 
But nowhere found his child! 

“Hell-hound! by thee my child’s de¬ 
voured ! ’ ’ 

The frantic father cried; 

And to the hilt his vengeful sword 
He plunged in Gelert’s side. 

His suppliant, as to earth he fell, 

No pity could impart; 

But still his Gelert’s dying yell, 
Passed heavy o’er his heart. 

Aroused by Gelert’s dying yell, 

Some slumberer wakened nigh; 
What words the parent’s joy can tell, 
To hear his infant cry! 

Concealed beneath a mangled heap, 
His hurried search had missed, 

All glowing from his rosy sleep, 

His cherub-boy he kissed! 

Nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor 
dread, 

But the same couch beneath 
Lay a great wolf, all torn and dead, 
Tremendous still in death! 


Ballads 


Ah! what was then Llewellyn’s pain! 

For now the truth was clear: 

The gallant hound the wolf had slain, 
To save Llewellyn’s heir. 

Vain, vain was all Llewellyn’s woe; 

“Best of thy kind, adieu! 

The frantic deed which laid thee low 
This heart shall ever rue! ’ ’ 

And now a gallant tomb they raised, 
With costly sculpture decked; 

And marbles storied with his praise 
Poor Gelert’s bones protect. 

Here never could the spearman pass, 
Or forester, unmoved, 

Here oft the tear-besprinkled grass 
Llewellyn’s sorrow proved. 

And here he hung his horn and spear, 
And oft, as evening fell, 

In fancy’s piercing sounds would hear 
Poor Gelert’s dying yell. 

William Robert Spencer . 


THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE.* 

A well there is in the west-country, 
And a clearer one never was seen; 
There is not a wife in the west-country 
But has heard of the well of St. 
Keyne. 

An oak and an elm tree stand beside, 
And behind does an ash-tree grow, 
And a willow from the bank above 
Droops to the water below. 

* I know not whether it be worth re¬ 
porting- that there is in Cornwall, near the 
parish of St. Neots, a well, arched over 
with the robes of four kinds of trees, 
withy, oak, elm and ash, dedicated to St. 
Keyne. The reported virtue of the water is 
this, that whether husband or wife come 
first to drink thereof, they get the mastery 
thereby.— Thos. Fuller. 


403 

A traveller came to the well of St. 
Keyne: 

Pleasant it was to his eye, 

For from cock-crow he had been 
travelling 

And there was not a cloud in the 
sky. 

He drank of the water so cool and 
clear, 

For thirsty and hot was he, 

And he sat down upon the bank, 

Under the willow tree. 

There came a man from the neighbor¬ 
ing town 

At the well to till his pail, 

On the well-side he rested it, 

And bade the stranger hail. 

“Now art thou a bachelor, stranger?” 
quoth he, 

“For an if thou hast a wife, 

The happiest draught thou hast drank 
this day 

That ever thou didst in thy life. 

11 Or has your good woman, if one you 
have, 

In Cornwall ever been ? 

For an if she have, I’ll venture my 
life 

Sho has drank of the well of St. 
Keyne. ’ ’ 

“7 have left a good woman ivho never 
was here/ 1 

The stranger he made reply; 

<( But that my draught should be bet¬ 
ter for that, 

I pray you answer me why. 11 

“St. Keyne,” quoth the countryman, 
“many a time • 

Drank of this crystal well, 

And before the angel summoned her 

She laid on the water a spell. 


404 Poems for 

‘ ‘ If the husband of this gifted well 

Shall drink before his wife, 

A happy man thenceforth is he, 

For he shall be master for life. 

‘‘But if the wife should drink of it 
first, 

God help the husband then! * ’ 

The stranger stoop’d to the well of 
St. Keyne, 

And drank of the waters again. 

“You drank of the well, I warrant, 
betimes?” 

He to the countryman said; 

But the countryman smiled as the 
stranger spake, 

And sheepishly shook his head. 

“I hastened as soon as the wedding 
was done, 

And left my wife in the porch, 

But i’ faith she had been wiser than 
me, 

For she took a bottle to church.” 

Robert Southey. 


LUCY AND COLIN. 

Of Leinster fam’d for maidens fair, 
Bright Lucy was the grace; 

Nor e’er did Lilly’s limpid stream 
Reflect so fair a face. 

Till luckless love, and pining care 
Impair’d her rosy hue, 

Her coral lips, and damask cheek, 
And eyes of glossy blue. 

Oh! have you seen a lily pale, 

When beating rains descend? 

So droop’d the slow consuming maid, 
Her life now near its end. 


Children 

By Lucy warned, of flattering swains 
Take heed, ye easy fair: 

Of vengeance due to broken vows, 

Ye perjured swains, beware. 

Three times, all in the dead of night, 
A bell was heard to ring; 

And at her window, shrieking thrice, 
The raven flapp’d his wing. 

Too well the love-lorn maiden knew 
That solemn boding sound; 

And thus, in dying words, bespoke 
The virgins weeping round. 

1 ‘ I hear a voice you cannot hear, 
Which says, I must not stay: 

I see a hand you cannot see 
Which beckons me away. 

“By a false heart, and broken vows, 
In early youth I die. 

Am I to blame, because his bride 
Is thrice as rich as I? 

‘ 1 Ah, Colin! give not her thy vows; 

Vows due to me alone: 

Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss, 
Nor think him all thy own. 

‘ ‘ To-morrow in the church to wed, 
Impatient, both prepare; 

But know, fond maid, and know, false 
man, 

That Lucy will be there. 

“Then bear my corse; ye comrades, 
bear, 

The bridegroom blithe to meet; 

He in his wedding-trim so gay, 

I in my winding-sheet.” 

She spoke, she died;—her corse was 
borne, 

The bridegroom blithe to meet; 

He in his wedding-trim so gay, 

She in her winding-sheet. 


Ballads 


Then what were perjured Colin’s 
thoughts ? 

How were those nuptials kept ? 

The bride-men flock’d round Lucy 
dead, 

And all the village wept. 

Confusion, shame, remorse, despair 
At once his bosom swell. 

The damps of death bedew’d his brow, 
He shook, he groan’d, he fell. 

From the vain bride (ah, bride no 
more!) 

The varying crimson fled, 

When, stretch’d before her rival’s 
corse, 

She saw her husband dead. 

Then to his Lucy’s new-made grave, 
Convey’d by trembling swains, 

One mould with her, beneath one sod, 
For ever now remains. 

Oft at their grave the constant hind 
And plighted maid are seen; 

With garlands gay, and true-love 
knots 

They deck the sacred green. 

But, swain, forsworn, whoe’er thou 
art, 

This hallow’d spot forbear; 
Remember Colin’s dreadful fate, 

And fear to meet him there. 

Thomas Tickell. 


EDWIN AND ANGELINA. 

4 ‘Turn, gentle Hermit of the dale, 
And guide my lonely way 
To where yon taper cheers the vale 
With hospitable ray. 


405 

‘ ‘ For here forlorn and lost I tread, 
With fainting steps and slow, 
Where wilds, immeasurably spread, 
Seem lengthening as I go.” 

—‘ ‘ Forbear, my son, ’ ’ the Hermit 
cries, 

“To tempt the dangerous gloom, 
For yonder faithless phantom flies 
To lure thee to thy doom. 

“Here to the houseless child of want 
My door is open still; 

And though my portion is but scant 
I give it with goodwill. 

“Then turn to-night, and freely share 
Whate’er my cell bestows; 

My rushy couch and frugal fare, 

My blessing and repose. 

“No flocks that range the valley free 
To slaughter I condemn; 

Taught by that Power that pities me, 
I learn to pity them: 

4 4 But from the mountain’s grassy 
side 

A guiltless feast I bring: 

A scrip with herbs and fruits sup¬ 
plied, 

And water from the spring. 

“Then, pilgrim! turn; thy cares 
forego; 

All earth-born cares are wrong: 
Man wants but little here below, 

Nor wants that little long.” 

Soft as the dew from heaven descends 
His gentle accents fell: 

The modest stranger lowly bends, 

And follows to the cell. 

Far in the wilderness obscure 
The lonely mansion lay, 

A refuge to the neighboring poor, 
And strangers led astray. 


Poems for Children 


406 

No stores beneath its humble thatch 
Required a master's care, 

The wicket, opening with a latch, 
Received the harmless pair. 

And now, when busy crowds retire 
To take their evening rest, 

The hermit trimm’d his little fire, 
And cheer’d his pensive guest: 

And spread his vegetable store, 

And gaily press’d and smiled: 

And skill’d in legendary lore, 

The lingering hours beguiled. 

Around, in sympathetic mirth, 

Its tricks the kitten tries; 

The cricket chirrups on the hearth, 
The crackling fagot flies. 

But nothing could a charm impart 
To soothe the stranger’s woe; 

For grief was heavy at his heart, 

And tears began to flow. 

His rising cares the Hermit spied, 
With answering care oppress’d: 

And ‘‘Whence, unhappy youth,” he 
cried, 

“The sorrows of thy breast? 

“From better habitations spurn’d 
Reluctant dost thou rove? 

Or grieve for friendship unreturn’d, 
Or unregarded love ? 

“Alas! the joys that fortune brings 
Are trifling, and decay; 

And those who prize the paltry things, 
More trifling still than they. 

“And what is friendship but a name, 
A charm that lulls to sleep; 

A shade that follows wealth or fame, 
But leaves the wretch to weep ? 


“And love is still an emptier sound, 
The modern fair-one’s jest; 

O 11 earth unseen, or only found 
To warm the turtle’s nest. 

‘ ‘ For shame, fond youth! thy sorrows 
hush; 

And spurn the sex,” he said; 

But while he spoke, a rising blush 
His love-lorn guest betray’d! 

Surprised he sees new beauties rise, 
Swift mantling to the view; 

Like colors o’er the morning skies, 
As bright, as transient too. 

The bashful look, the rising breast, 
Alternate spread alarms: 

The lovely stranger stands confess’d, 
A maicl in all her charms. 

And ‘ ‘ Ah! forgive a stranger rude,— 
A wretch forlorn,” she cried; 
“Whose feet, unhallow’d, thus in¬ 
trude 

Where Heaven and you reside! 

“But let a maid thy pity share, 
Whom love has taught to stray; 
Who seeks for rest, but finds despair 
Companion of her way. 

“My father lived beside the Tyne, 

A wealthy lord was he; 

And all his wealth was mark’d as 
mine, 

He had but only me. 

‘ ‘ To win me from his tender arms 
Unnumber’d suitors came, 

Who praised me for imputed charms, 

And felt or feign’d a flame. 

* 

“Each hour a mercenary crowd 
With richest proffers strove: 
Amongst the rest, young Edwin 
bow’d, 

But never talk’d of love. 


Ballads 


“In humble, simple habit clad, 

No wealth, nor power had he: 
Wisdom and worth were all he had, 
But these were all to me. 

“And when, beside me in the dale, 
He car oil’d lays of love, 

His breath lent fragrance to the gale, 
And music to the grove. 

“The blossom opening to the day, 
The dews of heaven refined, 

Could nought of purity display 
To emulate his mind. 

“The dew, the blossom on the tree, 
With charms inconstant shine: 
Their charms were his; but, woe to 
me! 

Their constancy was mine. 

“For still I tried each fickle art, 
Importunate and vain; 

And, while his passion touch’d my 
heart, 

I triumph’d in his pain: 

“Till, quite dejected with my scorn, 
He left me to my pride; 

And sought a solitude forlorn, 

In secret, where he died. 

‘ ‘ But mine the sorrow, mine the fault! 

And well my life shall pay; 

I’ll seek the solitude he sought, 

And stretch me where he lay. 

“And there, forlorn, despairing, hid, 
I’ll lay me down and die; 

’Twas so for me that Edwin did, 

And so for him will I.” 

—“Forbid it, Heaven!” the Hermit 
cried, 

And clasp’d her to his breast: 

The wondering fair one turn’d to 
chide— 

’Twas Edwin’s self that press’d! 


407 

“Turn, Angelina, ever dear, 

My charmer, turn to see 
Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, 
Best or ed to love and thee. 

“Thus let me hold thee to my heart, 
And every care resign: 

And shall we never, never part, 

My life—my all that’s mine? 

“No, never from this hour to part, 
We’ll live and love so true: 

The sigh that rends thy constant heart 
Shall break thy Edwin’s too.” 

Oliver Goldsmith. 

THE BAILIFF’S DAUGHTER OF 
ISLINGTON. 

There was a youth, a well-beloved 
youth, 

And he was a squire’s son, 

He loved the bayliffe’s .daughter dear, 
That lived in Islington. 

Yet she was coy and would not believe 
That he did love her so, 

No nor at any time would she 
Any countenance to him show. 

But when his friends did understand 
His fond and foolish mind, 

They sent him up to faire London 
An apprentice for to bind. 

And when he had been seven long 
years, 

And never his love could see: 
Many a tear have I shed for her sake, 
When she little thought of me. 

Then nil the maids of Islington 
Went forth to sport and play, 

All but the bayliffe’s daughter dear; 
She secretly stole away. 


Poems for Children 


408 

She pulled off her gown of green, 
And put on ragged attire, 

And to faire London she would go 
Her true love to enquire. 

And as she went along the high road, 
The weather being hot and dry, 
She sat her down upon a green bank, 
And her true love came riding bye. 

She started up, with a color so redd, 
Catching hold of his bridle-reine; 
One penny, one penny, kind sir, she 
said, 

"Will ease me of much pain. 

Before I give you one penny, sweet¬ 
heart, 

Pray tell me where you were born. 
At Islington, kind sir, said she, 

Where I have had many a scorn. 

I pry the, sweetheart, then tell to me, 
O tell me, whether you know, 

The bayliffe’s daughter of Islington. 
She is dead, sir, long ago. 

If she be dead, then take my horse, 
My saddle and bridle also; 

For I will unto some far country, 
Where no man shall me know. 

0 stay, 0 stay, thou goodly youth, 
She standeth by thy side; 

She is here alive, she is not dead, 

And ready to be thy bride. 

0 farewell grief, and welcome joy, 
Ten thousand times therefore; 

For now I have found mine own true 
love, 

Whom I thought I should never see 
more. 

Unknown. 


ALLAN WATER. 

On the banks of Allan Water, 

When the sweet spring time did fall, 
Was the miller’s lovely daughter, 
Fairest of them all. 

For his bride a soldier sought her, 
And a winning tongue had he, 

On the banks of Allan Water, 

None so gay as she. 

On the banks of Allan Water, 

When brown autumn spread his store, 
There I saw the miller’s daughter, 
But she smiled no more. 

For the summer grief had brought 
her, 

And the soldier false was he, 

On the banks of Allan Water, 

None so sad as she. 

On the banks of Allan Water, 

When the winter snow fell fast, 

Still was seen the miller’s daughter, 
Chilling blew the blast. 

But the miller’s lovely daughter, 
Both from cold and care was free, 

On the banks of Allan Water, 

There a corse lay she. 

Matthew Gregory Lewis. 

THE ROMANCE OF THE 
SWAN’S NEST. 

Little Elbe sits alone 
’Mid the beeches of a meadow, 

By a stream-side on the grass; 

And the trees are showering down 
Doubles of their leaves in shadow 
On the shining hair and face. 

She has thrown her bonnet by; 

And her feet she has been dipping 
In the shallow waters’ flow— 


Ballads 


Now she holds them nakedly 
In her hands, all sleek and dripping, 
While she rocketh to and fro. 

Little Ellie sits alone, 

And the smile she softly nseth 
Fills the silence like a speech: 

While she thinks what shall be done, 
And the sweetest pleasure chooseth 
For her future, within reach. 

Little Ellie in her smile 
Chooseth—* ‘ I will have a lover 
Riding on a steed of steeds! 

He shall love me without guile; 

And to him I will discover 
That swan’s nest among the reeds. 

‘‘And the steed it shall be red-roan, 
And the lover shall be noble, 

With an eye that takes the breath; 
And the lute he plays upon 
Shall strike ladies into trouble, 

As his sword strikes men to death. 

“And the steed it shall be shod 
All in silver, housed in azure, 

And the mane shall swim the wind, 
And the hoofs along the sod 
Shall flash onward and keep measure, 
Till the shepherds look behind. 

“He will kiss me on the mouth 
Then, and lead me as a lover 
Through the crowds that praise his 
deeds; 

And, when soul tied by one troth, 

Unto him I will discover 

That swan’s nest among the reeds.” 

Little Ellie, with her smile 
Not yet ended, rose up gaily— 

Tied the bonnet, donn’d the shoe, 

And went homeward round a mile, 
Just to see, as she did daily, 

What more eggs were with the two. 


409 

Pushing through the elm-tree copse, 
Winding by the stream, light-hearted, 
Where the osier pathway leads— 

Past the boughs she stoops and stops: 
So! the wild swan has deserted, 

And a rat had gnaw’d the reeds. 

Ellie went home sad and slow. 

If she found the lover ever, 

With his red-roan steed of steeds, 
Sooth I know not! but I know 
She could never show him—never— 
That swan’s nest among the reeds. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning . 


HERVE RIEL. 

On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen 
hundred ninety-two, 

Did the English fight the French,— 
woe to France! 

And, the thirty-first of May, helter- 
skelter through the blue, 

Like a crowd of frightened porpoises 
a shoal of sharks pursue, 

Came crowding ship on ship to St. 

Malo on the Ranee, 

With the English fleet in view. 

’Twas the squadron that escaped, with 
the victor in full chase; 

First and foremost of the drove, in 
his great ship, Damfreville; 
Close on him fled, great and small, 
Twenty-two good ships in all; 

And they signalled to the place 
“Help the winners of a race! 

Get us guidance, give us harbor, take 
us quick—or, quicker still, 

Here’s the English can and will!” 

Then the pilots of the place put out 
brisk and leapt on board; 
“Why, what hope or chance have 
ships like these to pass?” laughed 
they: 


Poems for Children 


410 

Rocks to starboard, rocks to port, all 
the passage scarred and scored, 
Shall the Formidable here with her 
twelve and eighty guns 
Think to make the river-mouth by the 
single narrow way, 

Trust to enter where his ticklish for 
a craft of twenty tons, 

And with flow at full beside ? 

Now, ’tis slackest ebb of tide. 

Reach the mooring? Rather say, 
While rock stands or water runs, 

Not a ship will leave the bay!” 

Then was called a council straight. 
Brief and bitter the debate: 

“Here’s the English at our heels; 

would you have them take in tow 
All that’s left us of the fleet, linked 
together stern and bow, 

For a prize to Plymouth Sound? 
Better run the ships aground!” 

(Ended Damfreville his speech.) 
Not a minute more to wait! 

“Let the Captains all and each 
Shove ashore, then blow up, burn the 
vessels on the beach! 

France must undergo her fate. 

‘ ‘ Give the word! ” But no such word 
Was ever spoke or heard; 

For up stood, for out stepped, for in 
struck amid all these 
—A Captain? A Lieutenant? A 
Mate—first, second, third? 

No such man of mark, and meet 
With his betters to compete! 

But a simple Breton sailor pressed by 
Tourville for the fleet, 

A poor coasting-pilot he, Herve Riel 
the Croisickese. 

And, “What mockery or malice have 
we here?” cries Herve Riel: 
“Are you mad, you Malouins? Are 
you cowards, fools, or rogues? 
Talk to me of rocks and shoals, me 
who took the soundings, tell 


On my fingers every bank, every shal¬ 
low, every swell 

’Twixt the offing here and Greve 
where the river disembogues? 
Are you bought by English gold ? Is 
it love the lying’s for? 

Morn and eve, night and day, 

Have I piloted your bay, 

Entered free and anchored fast at 
foot of Solidor. 

“Burn the fleet and ruin France? 
That were worse than fifty 
Hogues! 

Sirs, they know I speak the truth! 

Sirs, believe me there’s a way! 
Only let me lead the line, 

Have the biggest ship to steer, 

Get this Formidable clear, 

Make the others follow mine, 

And I lead them, most and least, by 
a passage I know well, 

Right to Solidor past Greve, 

And there lay them safe and sound; 
And if one ship misbehave, 

—Keel so much as grate the ground, 
Why, I’ve nothing but my life,— 
here’s my head!” cries Herve 
Riel. 

Not a minute more to wait. 

“Steer us in, then, small and great! 
Take the helm, lead the line, save the 
squadron!” cried his chief. 

‘ ‘ Captains, give the sailor place! 

He is Admiral, in brief.” 

Still the north-wind, by God’s grace. 
See the noble fellow’s face, 

As the big ship with a bound, 

Clears the entry like a hound, 

Keeps the passage, as its inch of way 
were the wide seas profound! 
See, safe thro’ shoal and rock, 

How they flow in a flock, 

Not a .ship that misbehaves, not a keel 
tliat grates the ground, 


Ballads 


411 


Not a spar that comes to grief! 

The peril, see, is past, 

All are harbored to the last, 

And just as Herve Riel hollas “An¬ 
chor!”—sure as fate 
Up the English come, too late! 

So, the storm subsides to calm: 

They see the green trees wave 
On the heights o’erlooking Greve. 
Hearts that bled are stanched with 
balm. 

“Just our rapture to enhance, 

Let the English rake the bay, 

Gnash their teeth and glare askance, 
As they cannonade away! 

’Neath rampired Solidor pleasant rid¬ 
ing on the Ranee!” 

How hope succeeds despair on each 
Captain’s countenance! 

Out burst all with one accord, 

“This is Paradise for Hell! 

Let France, let France’s King 
Thank the man that did the thing!” 
What a shout, and all one word, 
“Herve Riel!” 

As he stepped in front once more, 
Not a symptom of surprise 
In the frank blue Breton eyes, 

Just the same man as before. 

Then said Damfreville, “My friend, 

I must speak out at the end, 

Though I find the speaking hard. 
Praise is deeper than the lips: 

You have saved the King his ships, 
You must name your own reward. 
’Faith, our sun was near eclipse! 
Demand whate’er you will, 

France remains your debtor still. 

Ask to heart’s content and have! or 
my name’s not Damfreville.” 

Then a beam of fun outbroke 
On the bearded mouth that spoke, 

As the honest heart laughed through 
Those frank eyes of Breton blue: 


“Since I needs must say my say, 
Since on board the duty’s done, 

And from Malo Roads to Crossic 
Point, what is it but a run?— 
Since ’tis ask and have, I may— 
Since the others go ashore— 

Come! A good whole holiday! 

Leave to go and see my wife, whom I 
call the Belle Aurore!” 

That he asked and that he got,—noth¬ 
ing more. 


Name and deed alike are lost: 

Not a pillar nor a post 
In his Croisic keeps alive the feat as 
it befell; 

Not a head in white and black 
On a single fishing smack, 

In memory of the man but for whom 
had gone to wrack 
All that France saved from the fight 
whence England bore the bell. 
Go to Paris: rank on rank 
Search the heroes flung pell-mell 
On the Louvre, face and flank! 

You shall look long enough ere you 
come to Herve Riel. 

So, for better and for worse, 

Herve Riel, accept my verse! 

In my verse, Herve Riel, do thou once 
more 

Save the squadron, honor France, love 
thy wife, the Belle Aurore! 

Robert Browning. 


KING CANUTE. 

King Canute was weary hearted; he 
had reigned for years a score, 

Battling, struggling, pushing, fight¬ 
ing, killing much, and robbing 
more; 

And he thought upon his actions, 
walking by the wild sea-shore. 


Poems for Children 


412 

’Twixt the Chancellor and the Bishop, 
walked the King with steps 
sedate, 

Chamberlains and grooms came after, 
silver-sticks and gold-sticks great, 

Chaplains, aides-de-camp and pages,— 
all the officers of state. 

Sliding after like his shadow, pausing 
when he choose to pause, 

If a frown his face contracted, straight 
the courtiers dropped their jaws; 

If to laugh the King was minded, out 
they burst in loud hee-haws. 

But that day a something vexed him; 
that was clear to old and young; 

Thrice His Grace had yawned at table 
when his favorite gleemen sung, 

Once the Queen would have consoled 
him, but he bade her hold her 
tongue. 

“ Something ails my gracious mas¬ 
ter !” cried the Keeper of the 
Seal, 

“Sure, my lord, it is the lampreys 
served for dinner, or the veal ? ’ ’ 

* i Psha! ’ * exclaimed the angry mon¬ 
arch, “Keeper, ’tis not that I 
feel. 

“ ’Tis the heart, and not the dinner, 
fool, that doth my rest impair; 

Can a king be great as I am, prithee, 
and yet know no care? 

Oh, I’m sick, and tired, and weary.” 
Some one cried: “The King’s 
arm-chair! ’ ’ 


“Nay, I feel,” replied King Canute, 
“that my end is drawing near.” 

“Don’t say so!” exclaimed the court¬ 
iers (striving each to squeeze a 
tear). 

‘ ‘ Sure your Grace is strong and lusty, 
and may live this fifty year! ’ ’ 

“Live these fifty years!” the Bishop 
roared, with actions made to suit. 

“Are you mad, my good Lord Keeper, 
thus to speak of King Canute! 

Men have lived a thousand years, and 
sure His Majesty will do ’t. 

“With his wondrous skill in healing 
ne’er a doctor can compete, 

Loathsome lepers, if he touch them, 
start up clean upon their feet; 

Surely he could raise the dead up, did 
His Highness think it meet. 

“Did not once the Jewish captain stay 
the sun upon the hill, 

And the while he slew the foemen, bid 
the silver moon stand still ? 

So, no doubt, could gracious Canute, 
if it were his sacred will.” 

“Might I stay the sun above us, good 
Sir Bishop?” Canute cried, 

Could I bid the silver moon to pause 
upon her heavenly ride? 

If the moon obeys my orders, sure I 
can command the tide! 


Then toward the lackeys turning, “Will the advancing waves obey me, 
quick my Lord the Keeper nodded, Bishop, if I make the sign ? ’ ’ 

Straight the King’s great chair was Said the Bishop,bowing lowly: “Land 
brought him, by two footmen and sea, my Lord, are thine.” 

able-bodied; Canute turned toward the ocean: 

Languidly he sank into it; it was “Back!” he said, “thou foaming 
comfortably wadded. brine. 


Ballads 


“From the sacred shore I stand on, I 
command thee to retreat; 

Venture not thou stormy rebel, to ap¬ 
proach thy master’s seat; 

Ocean be thou still! I bid thee come 
not nearer to my feet! ’ ’ 

But the sullen ocean answered with a 
louder, deeper roar, 

And the rapid waves drew nearer, 
falling sounding on the shore; 

Back the Keeper and the Bishop, back 
the King and courtiers bore. 

And he sternly bade them never more 
to kneel to human clay, 

But alone to praise and worship That 
which earth and seas obey; 

And Iris golden crown of empire never 
wore he from that day. 

( Condensed .) 

William Makepeace Thackeray . 


ALICE FELL. 

The post-boy drove with fierce career, 
For threatening clouds the moon 
had drowned: 

When, as we hurried on, my ear 
Was smitten with a startling sound. 

As if the wind blew many ways, 

I heard the sound,—and more and 
more ; 

It seemed to follow with the chaise, 
And still I heard it as before. 

At length I to the boy called out; 

He stopped his horses at the word; 
But neither cry, nor voice, nor shout, 
Nor aught else like it, could be 
heard. 


413 

The boy then smacked his whip, and 
fast 

The horses scampered through the 
rain; 

And soon I heard upon the blast 
The cry, I bade him halt again. 

Forthwith, alighting on the ground, 

‘ ‘ Whence comes, ’ ’ said I, ‘ ‘ this 
piteous moan?” 

And there a little Girl I found, 
Sitting behind the chaise, alone. 

“My cloak! ” no other word she spake, 
But loud and bitterly she wept, 

As if her innocent heart would break; 
And down from olf her seat she 
leapt. 

‘ ‘ What ails you, child ? ’ ’—she sobbed, 
“Look here!” 

I saw it in the wheel entangled, 

A weather-beaten rag as e’er 
From any garden scarecrow dangled. 

’Twas twisted between nave and 
spoke: 

It hung, nor could at once be freed, 

But our joint palms unloosed the 
cloak, 

A miserable rag indeed! 

‘ 1 And whither are you going, child, 
To-night along these lonesome 
ways ? ’ ’ 

“To Durham,” answered she, half 
wild— 

“Then come with me into the 
chaise.” 

She sat like one past all relief; 

Sob after sob she forth did send 

In Avretchedness, as if her grief 
Could never, never have an end. 


4>4 


Poems for Children 


‘ 4 My child, in Durham do you dwell ? ’ ’ 
She checked herself in her distress, 
And said, “My name is Alice Fell; 
I’m fatherless and motherless. 

“And I to Durham, sir, belong:” 
Again, as if the thought would 
choke 

Her very heart, her grief grew strong: 
And all was for her tattered cloak! 

The chaise drove on, our journey’s 
end 

Was nigh; and sitting by my side, 
As if she had lost her only friend, 
She wept, nor would be pacified. 

Up to the tavern-door we post; 

Of Alice and her grief I told, 

And I gave money to the host, 

To buy a new cloak for the old. 

‘ * And let it be of duffil gray, 

As warm a cloak as man can sell!” 
Proud creature was she the next day, 
The little orphan, Alice Fell! 

William Wordsworth. 


LUCY GRAY; 

OR SOLITUDE. 

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: 

And, when I crossed the wild, 

I chanced to see at break of day, 
The solitary child. 

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew: 
i She dwelt on a wide moor,— 

The sweetest thing that ever grew 
Beside a human door! 

You yet may spy the fawn at play, 
The hare upon the green; 

But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 
Will never more be seen. 


“To-night will be a stormy night— 
You to the town must go; 

And take a lantern, Child, to light 
Your mother through the snow.” 

“That, Father, will I gladly do: 

’Tis scarcely afternoon— 

The minster-clock has just struck two, 
And yonder is the moon! ’ ’ 

At this the Father raised his hook, 
And snapped a faggot-brand; 

He plied his work;—and Lucy took 
The lantern in her hand. 

Not blither is the mountain roe; 

With many a wanton stroke 
Her feet disperse the powdery snow, 
That rises up like smoke. 

The storm came on before its time: 

She wandered up and down; 

And many a hill did Lucy climb: 

But never reached the town. 

The wretched parents all that night 
Went shouting far and wide; 

But there was neither sound nor sight 
To serve them for a guide. 

At daybreak on a hill they stood 
That overlooked the moor: 

And thence they saw the bridge of 
wood 

A furlong from their door. 

They wept—and, turning homeward, 
cried, 

“In heaven we all shall meet;” 
When in the snow the mother spied 
The print of Lucy’s feet. 

Half breathless from the steep hill’s 
edge 

They tracked the footmarks small; 
And through the broken hawthorn 
hedge, 

A.ud by the long stone wall. 


Ballads 


And then an open field they crossed; 

The marks were still the same; 
They tracked them on, nor ever lost; 
And to the bridge they came. 

They followed from the snowy bank 
Those footmarks, one by one, 

Into the middle of the plank; 

And farther there were none!— 

Yet some maintain that to this day 
She is a living child: 

That you may see sweet Lucy Gray 
Upon the lonesome wild. 

0 ’er rough and smooth she trips 
along, 

And never looks behind; 

And sings a solitary song 
That whistles in the wind. 

William Wordsworth. 


THE SEVEN SISTERS, OR THE 
SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE. 

Seven daughters had Lord Archibald, 
All children of one mother: 

You could not say in one short day 
What love they bore each other. 

A garland, of seven lilies wrought! 
Seven sisters that together dwell; 

But he, bold knight as ever fought, 
Their father took of them no thought, 
He loved the wars so well. 

Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, 

The solitude of Binnorie! 

Fresh blows the wind, a western wind, 
And from the shores of Erin, 

Across the wave, a rover brave 
To Binnorie is steering: 

Right onward to the Scottish strand 
The gallant ship is borne; 

The warriors leap upon the land, 


4 b r 

And hark! the leader of the band 
Hath blown his bugle horn. 

Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, 
The solitude of Binnorie! 

Beside a grotto of their own, 

With boughs above them closing, 

The seven are laid, and in the shade 
They lie like fawns reposing. 

But now upstarting with affright 
At noise of man and steed, 

Away they fly, to left, to right— 

Of your fair household, father-knight, 
Methinks you take small heed! 

Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, 

The solitude of Binnorie! 

Away the seven fair Campbells fly; 
And, over hill and hollow, 

With menace proud, and insult loud, 
The youthful rovers follow. 

Cried they, “Your father loves tc 
roam: 

Enough for him to find 
The empty house when he comes 
home; 

For us your yellow ringlets comb, 

For us be fair and kind! ’ ’ 

Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, 
The solitude of Binnorie! 

Some close behind, some side by side, 
Like clouds in stormy weather, 

They run and cry, “Nay let us die, 
And let us die together.’’ 

A lake was near; the shore was steep; 
There foot had never been; 

They ran, and with a desperate leap 
Together plunged into the deep, 

Nor ever more were seen. 

Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, 
The solitude of Binnorie! 

The stream that flows out of the lake, 
As through the glen it rambles, 
Repeats a moan o’er moss and stone 
For those seven lovely Campbells. 


Poems for Children 


416 

Seven little islands, green and bare, 
Have risen from out the deep: 

The fishers say those sisters fair 
By fairies are all buried there, 

And there together sleep. 

Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, 
The solitude of Binnorie! 

"William Wordsivorth. 


THE LONG WHITE SEAM. 

As I came round the harbor buoy, 
The lights began to gleam, 

No wave the land-locked harbor 
stirred, 

The crags were white as cream; 
And I marked my love by candlelight 
Sewing her long white seam. 

It’s aye sewing ashore, my dear, 
Watch and steer at sea, 

It’s reef and furl, and haul the 
line, 

Set sail and think of thee. 

I climbed to reach her cottage door; 

Oh sweetly my love sings! 

Like a shaft of light her voice breaks 
forth, 

My soul to meet it springs, 

As the shining water leaped of old 
When stirred by angel wings. 

Aye longing to list anew, 

Awake and in my dream, 

But never a song she sang like 
this, 

Sewing her long white seam. 

Fair fall the lights, the harbor lights, 
That brought me in to thee, 

And peace drop down on that low 
roof, 

For the sight that I did see, 

And the voice, my dear, that rang so 
clear, 


All for the love of me. 

For 0, for O, with brows bent 
low, 

By the flickering candle’s 
gleam, 

Her wedding gown it was she 
wrought, 

Sewing the long white seam. 

Jean Ingelow. 


JOCK OF HAZELDEAN. 

“Why weep ye by the tide, ladie? 

Why weep ye by the tide? 

I’ll wed ye to my youngest son, 

And ye sail be his bride: 

And ye sail be his bride, ladie, 

Sae comely to be seen”— 

But aye she loot the tears down fa’ 
For Jock of Hazeldean. 

“Now let this wilfu’ grief be done, 
And dry that cheek so pale; 

Young Frank is chief of Errington, 
And lord of Langley-Hale; 

His step is first in peaceful ha’, 

His sword in battle keen”— 

But aye she loot the tears down fa’ 
For Jock of Hazeldean. 

“A chain of gold ye sail not lack, 
Nor braid to bind your hair; 

Nor mettled hound, nor managed 
hawk, 

Nor palfrey fresh and fair; 

And you, the foremost of them a’ 
Shall ride our forest queen”— 

But aye she loot the tears down fa’ 
For Jock of Hazeldean. 

The kirk was deck’d at morning-tide, 
The tapers glimmer’d fair; 

The priest and bridegroom wait the 
bride, 

And dame and knight are there. 


Ballads 


They sought her baith by bower and 
ha’; 

The ladie was not seen! 

She’s o’er the Border, and awa’ 

Wi’ Jock of Hazeldean. 

Walter Scott. 


THE LAMENT OF THE 
BORDER WIDOW. 

My love he built me a bonnie bower, 
And clad it all with lily flower; 

A braver bower you ne’er did see, 
Than my true love he built for me. 

There came a man by middle day, 
He spied his sport and went his way, 
And brought the king that very night 
Who broke my bower and slew my 
knight. 

He slew my knight to me so dear; 
He slew my knight and pour’d his 
gear; 

My servants all for life did flee, 

And left me in extremitie. 

I sew’d his sheet, making my moan; 
I watched his corpse, myself alone; 

I watched his body, night and day; 
No living creature came that way. 

I took his body on my back, 

And whiles I gaed and whiles I sat; 
I digg’d a grave and laid him in, 

And happ’d him with the sod so 
green. 

But think na ye my heart was sair, 
When I laid the moul’ on his yellow 
hair ? 

0, think na ye my heart was wae, 
When I turned about, away to gae? 


417 

No living man I ’ll love again, 

Since that my lovely knight is slain; 
Wi’ ae lock o’ his yellow hair, 

I ’ll bind my heart for evermair. 

Unknown. 


THE LORD OF BURLEIGH. 

In her ear he whispers gaily, 

“If my heart by signs can tell, 

Maiden, I have watch’d thee daily, 
And I think thou lov’st me well.” 

She replies, in accents fainter, 

‘ ‘ There is none I love like thee. ’ ’ 

He is but a landscape-painter, 

And a village maiden she. 

He to lips, that fondly falter, 

Presses his without reproof; 

Leads her to the village altar, 

And they leave her father’s roof. 

“I can make no marriage present; 
Little can I give my wife. 

Love will make our cottage pleasant, 
And I love thee more than life.” 

They by parks and lodges going 
See the lordly castles stand; 

Summer woods, about them blowing, 
Made a murmur in the land. 

From deep thought himself he rouses, 
Says to her that loves him well, 

“Let us see these handsome houses 
Where the wealthy nobles dwell.” 

So she goes by him attended, 

Hears him lovingly converse, 

Sees whatever fair and splendid 
Lay betwixt his home and hers. 

Parks with oak and chestnut shady, 
Parks and order’d gardens great, 

Ancient homes of lord and lady, 

Built for pleasure and for state. 


Poems for Children 


418 

All he shows her makes him dearer; 
Evermore she seems to gaze 

On that cottage growing nearer, 
Where they twain will spend their 
days. 

0 but she will love him truly! 

He shall have a cheerful home; 

She will order all things duly, 

When beneath his roof they come. 

Thus her heart rejoices greatly, 

Till a gateway she discerns 

With armorial bearings stately, 

And beneath the gate she turns; 

Sees a mansion more majestic 
Than all those she saw before; 

Many a gallant gay domestic 
Bows before him at the door. 

And they speak in gentle murmur, 
When they answer to his call, 

While he treads with footstep firmer, 
Leading on from hall to hall. 

And while now she wanders blindly, 
Nor the meaning can divine, 

Proudly turns he round and kindly, 
“All of this is mine and thine.’’ 

Here he lives in state and bounty, 
Lord of Burleigh, fair and free, 

Not a lord in all the county 
Is so great a lord as he. 

All at once the colour flushes 

Her sweet face from brow to chin; 

As it were with shame she blushes, 
And her spirit changed within. 

Then her countenance all over 
Pale again as death did prove; 

But he clasp’d her like a lover, 

And he cheer’d her soul with love. 

So she strove against her weakness, 
Tho ’ at times her spirits sank; 

Shaped her heart with woman’s meek¬ 
ness 

• To all duties of her rank; 


And a gentle consort made he, 

And her gentle mind was such 
That she grew a noble lady, 

And the people loved her much. 

But a trouble weigh’d upon her, 

And perplex’d her, night and morn 
With the burden of an honour 
Unto which she was not born. 

Faint she grew, and ever fainter, 

As she murmur’d, “Oh, that he 
Were once more that landscape-painter 
Which did win my heart from me! ’ ’ 

So she droop’d and droop’d before 
him, 

Fading slowly from his side; 

Three fair children first she bore him, 
Then before her time she died. 

Weeping, weeping late and early, 
Walking up and pacing down, 
Deeply mourn’d the Lord' of Burleigh, 
Burleigh-house by Stamford-town. 
And he came to look upon her, 

And he look’d at her and said, 

‘ ‘ Bring the dress and put it on her, 
That she wore when she was wed.” 

Then her people, softly treading, 

Bore to earth her body, drest 
In the dress that she was wed in, 

That her spirit might have rest. 

Alfred Tennyson . 


THE LADY OF SHALOTT. 
Part I. 

On either side the river lie 
Long fields of barley and of rye, 
That clothe the wold and meet the 
sky; 

And thro’ the road runs by 

To many tower’d Camelot. 


Ballads 


4>9 


And up and down the people go, 
Gazing where the lilies blow, 

Round an island there below, 

The island of Shalott. 

Willows whiten, aspens quiver, 

Little breezes dusk and shiver 
Thro’ the wave that runs for ever. 
By the island in the river, 

Flowing down to Camelot, 

Four gray walls, and four gray 
towers, 

Overlook a space of flowers, 

And the silent isle embowers 
The Lady of Shalott. 

By the margin, willow-veil’d, 

Slide the heavy barges trail’d 
By slow horses; and unhail’d 
The shallop flitteth silken-sail’d 

Skimming down to Camelot: 
But who hath seen her wave her hand ? 
Or at the casement seen her stand? 

Or is she known in all the land, 

The Lady of Shalott ? 

Only reapers, reaping early 
In among the bearded barley. 

Hear a song that echoes chcerly 
From the river winding clearly, 

Down to tower’d Camelot: 

And by the moon the reaper weary, 
Piling sheaves in uplands airy, 
Listening, whispers “ ’Tis the fairy 
Lady of Shalott.’’ 

Part II. 

There she weaves by night and day 
A magic web with colours gay, 

She has heard a whisper say 
A curse is on her if she stay 

To look down to Camelot. 

She knows not what the curse may be 
And so she weaveth steadily, 

And little other care hath she, 

The Lady of Shalott. 


And moving thro’ a mirror clear 
That hangs before her all the year, 
Shadows of the world appear. 

There she sees the highway near 
Winding down to Camelot: 
There the river eddy whirls, 

And there the surly village-churls, 
And the red cloaks of market girls, 
Pass onward from Shalott. 

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 
An abbot on an ambling pad, 
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, 

Or long-hair ’d page in crimson clad, 
Goes by to tower’d Camelot: 
And sometimes thro ’ the mirror blue 
The knights come riding two and two: 
She hath no loyal knight and true, 
The Lady of Shalott. 

But in her web she still delights 
To weave the mirror’s magic sights, 
For often thro’ the silent nights 
A funeral, with plumes and lights, 
And music, went to Camelot: 
Or when the moon was overhead, 
Came two young lovers lately wed. 
“I am half sick of shadows,” said 
The Lady of Shalott. 

Part III. 

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, 

He rode between the barley-sheaves, 
The sun came dazzling thro’ the 
leaves, 

And flamed upon the brazen greaves 
Of bold Sir Lancelot. 

A red-cross knight for ever kneel’d 
To a lady in his shield, 

That sparkled on the yellow field, 
Beside remote Shalott. 

The gemmy bridle glitter’d free, 

Like to some branch of stars we see 
Hung in the golden Galaxy. 

The bridle bells rang merrily 

As he rode down to Camelot: 


Poems for Children 


420 

And from his brazen’d baldric slung 
A mighty silver bugle hung, 

And as he rode his armour rung, 
Beside remote Shalott. 

All in the blue unclouded weather 
Thick-jewell’d shone the saddle- 
leather. 

The helmet and the helmet-feather 
Burn’d like one burning flame to¬ 
gether 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
As often thro’ the purple night, 
Below the starry clusters bright, 

Some bearded meteor, trailing light, 
Moves over still Shalott. 

His broad clear brow in sunlight 
glow’d; 

On burnish’d hooves his war-horse 
trod; 

From underneath his helmet flow’d 
His coal-black curls as on he rode, 

As he rode down to Camelot. 
From the bank and from the river 
He flash’d into the crystal mirror, 
“Tirra, lirra,” by the river 
Sang Sir Lancelot. 

She left the web, she left the loom, 
She made three paces thro’ the room, 
She saw the water-lily bloom, 

She saw the helmet and the plume, 

She looked down to Camelot. 
Out flew the web and floated wide; 
The mirror crack’d from side to side; 
‘ ‘ The curse is come upon me, ’ ’ cried 
The Lady of Shalott. 

Part IV. 

In the stormy east-wind straining, 

The pale yellow woods were waning, 
The broad stream in its banks com¬ 
plaining, 

Heavily the low sky raining 
Over tower’d Camelot; 


Down she came and found a boat 
Beneath a willow left afloat, 

And round about the prow she wrote 
The Lady of Shalott. 

And down the river’s dim expanse— 
Like some bold seer in a trance, 
Seeing all his own mischance— 

With a glassy countenance 

Did she look to Camelot. 

And at the closing of the day 
She loosed the chain, and down she 
lay; 

The broad stream bore her far away, 
The Lady of Shalott. 

Lying, robed in snowy white 
That loosely flew to left and right— 
The leaves upon her falling light— 
Thro’ the noises of the night 

She floated down to Camelot ; 
And as the boat-head wound along 
The willowy hills and fields among, 
They heard her singing her last song, 
The Lady of Shalott. 

Heard a carol, mournful, holy, 
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, 

Till her blood was frozen slowly, 

And her eyes were darken’d wholly, 
Turn’d to tower’d Camelot; 
For ere she reach’d upon the tide 
The first house by the water-side, 
Singing in her song she died, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Under tower and balcony, 

By garden-wall and gallery, 

A gleaming shape she floated by, 
Dead-pale between the houses high, 
Silent into Camelot ; 

Out upon the wharfs they came, 
Knight and burgher, lord and dame, 
And round the prow they read her 
name, 

The Lady of Shalott. 


Ballads 



AVho is this? and what is here? 

And in the lighted palace near 
Died the sound of royal cheer; 

And they cross’d themselves for fear, 
All the knights at Camelot; 
But Lancelot mused a little space; 

He said, “She has a lovely face; 

God in His mercy lend her grace, 

The Lady of Shalott.” 

Alfred Tennyson. 


SIR GALAHAD. 

My good blade carves the casques of 
men, 

My tough lance thrusteth sure; 

My strength is as the strength of ten, 
Because my heart is pure. 

The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, 
The hard brands shiver on the steel, 
The splinter’d spear-shafts crack and 

fly, 

The horse and rider reel; 

They reel, they roll in clanging lists, 
And when the tide of combat 
stands, 

Perfume and flowers fall in showers, 
That lightly rain from ladies’ 
hands. 

How sweet are looks that ladies bend 
On whom their favours fall! 

For them I battle till the end, 

To save from shame and thrall: 
But all my heart is drawn above, 

My knees are bowed in crypt and 
shrine: 

I never felt the kiss of love, 

Nor maiden’s hand in mine. 

More bounteous aspects on me beam, 
Me mightier transports move and 
thrill; 

So keep I fear thro’ faith and prayer 
A virgin heart in work and will. 


When down the stormy crescent goes, 
A light before me swims, 

Between dark stems the forest glows, 

I hear a noise of hymns: 

Then by some secret shrine I ride; 

I hear a voice, but none are there; 
The stalls are void, the doors are wide, 
The tapers burning fair. 

Fair gleams the snowy altar-cloth, 

The silver vessels sparkle clean, 

The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, 
And solemn chants resound between. 

Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres 
I find a magic bark; 

I leap on board: no helmsman steers: 

I float till all is dark. 

A gentle sound, an awful light! 

Three angels bear the holy Grail: 
With folded feet, in stoles of white, 
On sleeping wings they sail. 

Ah, blessed vision! blood of God! 

My spirit beats her mortal bars, 

As down dark tides the glory slides, 
And star-like mingles with the stars. 

When on my goodly charger borne 
Thro’ dreaming towns I go, 

The cock crows ere the Christmas 
morn, 

The streets are dumb with snow. 
The tempest crackles on the leads, 
And, ringing, spins from brand and 
mail; 

But o’er the dark a glory spreads, 
And gilds the driving hail. 

I leave the plain, I climb the height; 

No branchy thicket shelter yields; 
But blessed forms in whistling storms 
Fly o’er waste fens and windy 
fields. 

A maiden knight—to me is given 
Such hope, I know not fear; 

I yearn to breathe the airs of Heaven 
That often meet me here. 


422 


Poems for Children 


I muse on joy that will not cease, 
Pure spaces clothed in living beams, 
Pure lilies of eternal peace, 

Whose odours haunt my dreams; 
And, stricken by an angel’s hand, 

This mortal armour that I wear, 
This weight and size, this heart and 
eyes, 

Are touch’d, are turn’d to finest 
air. 

The clouds are broken in the sky, 

And thro’ the mountain-walls, 

A rolling organ-harmony 

Swells up, and shakes and falls. 
Then move the trees, the copses nod, 
Wings flutter, voices hover clear: 
“0 just and faithful knight of God! 

Ride on! the prize is near.” 

So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; 
By bridge and ford, by park and 
pale, 

All-arm’d I ride, whate’er betide, 
Until I find the holy Grail. 

Alfred Tennyson . 


FAIR HELEN OF KIRCONNEL. 

I wish I were where Helen lies! 
Night and day on me she cries; 

0 that I were where Helen lies, 

On fair Kirconnel Lee! 

Curst be the heart that thought the 
thought 

And curst the hand that fired the 
shot, 

When in my arms burd Helen dropt, 
And died to succour me! 

0 think na ye my heart was sair, 
When my love dropt down and spak 
nae mair! 

There did she swoon wi’ meikle care, 
On fair Kirconnel Lee. 


As I went down the water side, 

None but my foe to be my guide, 
None but my foe to be my guide, 

On fair Kirconnel Lee. 

I lighted down, my sword did draw, 

I hacked him in pieces sma’, 

I hacked him in pieces sma’, 

For her sake that died for me. 

O Helen fair, beyond compare! 

I’ll make a garland for thy hair, 
Shall bind my heart for evermair, 
Until the day I die. 

O that I were where Helen lies, 

Night and day on me she cries; 

Out of my bed she bids me rise 

Says, “Haste, and come to me!” 

0 Helen fair! 0 Helen chaste! 

If I were with thee, I were blest, 
Where thou lies low, and takes thy 
rest 

On fair Kirconnel Lee. 

I wish my grave were growing green, 
A winding sheet drawn ower my een, 
And I by my fair Helen lying, 

On fair Kirconnel Lee. 

I wish I were where Helen lies! 
Night and day on me she cries, 

And I am weary of the skies, 

For her sake that died for me. 

Unknown. 


“THE LINNET IN THE ROCKY 
DELLS.” 

The linnet in the rocky dells, 

The moor-lark in the air, 

The bee among the heather bells, 
That hide my lady fair: 


Ballads 


The wild deer browse above her 
breast; 

The wild birds raise their brood; 
And they, her smiles of love caressed, 
Have left her solitude! 

I ween, that when the grave’s dark 
wall 

Did first her form retain, 

They thought their hearts could ne’er 
recall, 

The light of joy again. 

They thought the tide of grief would 
flow, 

Unchecked through future years; 
But where is all their anguish now, 
And where are all their tears? 

Well, let them fight for honour’s 
breath, 

Or pleasure’s shade pursue— 

The dweller in the land of Death, 

Is changed and careless too. 

And if their eyes should watch and 
weep 

Till sorrow’s source were dry, 

She would not in her tranquil sleep 
Return a single sigh! 

Blow, west wind, by the lonely mound, 
And murmur, summer streams— 
There is no need of other sound 
To soothe my lady’s dreams. 

Emily Bronte. 

BARBARA ALLEN’S CRUELTY. 

In Scarlet town, where I was born, 
There was a fair maid dwelling, 
Made every youth cry “ Well-away!” 
Her name was Barbara Allen. 


4 2 3 

All in the merry month of May, 
When green buds they were swell¬ 
ing, 

Young Jemmy Grove on his death-bed 

lay, 

For love of Barbara Allen. 

He sent his man unto her then, 

To the town where she was dwell- 
^ ing; 

“You must come to my master dear, 
If your name be Barbara Allen. 

“For death is printed on his face, 
And o ’er his heart is stealing; 

Then haste away to comfort him, 

0 lovely Barbara Allen.” 

‘ ‘ Though death be printed on his face, 
And o’er his heart is stealing, 

Yet little better shall he be, 

For bonny Barbara Allen.” 

So slowly, slowly, she came up, 

And slowly she came nigh him; 

And all she said, when there she came, 
“Young man, I think you’re dy- 
mg. 7 

He turned his face unto her straight, 
With deadly sorrow sighing, 

“0 lovely maid, come pity me, 

I’m on my death-bed lying.” 

“If on your death-bed you do lie, 
What needs the tale you’re telling; 

I cannot keep you from your death; 
Farewell, ’ 7 said Barbara Allen. 

He turn’d his face unto the wall, 

As deadly pangs he fell in; 

“Adieu! Adieu! Adieu to you all, 
Adieu to Barbara Allen.” 


Poe ms for Children 


424 

As she was walking o’er the fields, 
She heard the bell a-knelling, 

And every stroke did seem to say, 
“Unworthy Barbara Allen!” 

She turn’d her body round about, 

And spied the corpse a-coming, 

“Lay down, lay down, the corpse,” 
she said, 

‘ ‘ That I may look upon him. ’ ’ 

With scornful eye she looked down, 
Her cheeks with laughter swelling, 

Whilst all her friends cried out amain, 
“Unworthy Barbara Allen!” 

When he was dead and laid in grave 
Her heart was struck with sorrow, 

“0 mother, mother, make my bed, 
For I shall die to-morrow. 

“Hard-hearted creature him to slight, 
Who loved me so dearly; 

0 that I had been more kind to him, 
When he was alive and near me! ’ ’ 

She, on her death-bed as she lay, 
Begg’d to be buried by him; 

And sore repented of the day, 

That she did ere deny him. 

“Farewell,” she said, “ye virgins all, 
And shun the fault I fell in; 

Henceforth take warning by the fall 
Of cruel Barbara Allen.” 

Unknown . 


ROSABELLE. 

O listen, listen, ladies gay! 

No haughty feat of arms I tell; 
Soft is the note, and sad the lay, 
That mourns the lovely Rosabelle. 


“Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant 
crew, 

And gentle lady, deign to stay! 

Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, 

Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day. 

“The blackening wave is edged with 
white; 

To inch and rock the sea-mews fly; 

The fishers have heard the Water- 
Sprite, 

Whose screams forbode that wreck 
is nigh. 

“Last night the gifted seer did view 
A wet shroud swathed round lady 
gay; 

Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch ? 
Why cross the gloomy firth to¬ 
day?” 

“ ’Tis not because Lord Lindesay’s 
heir 

To-night at Roslin leads the ball, 

But that my lady-mother there 
Sits lonely in her castle hall. 

‘ 4 ’Tis not because the ring they ride, 
And Lindesay at the ring rides well, 

But that my sire the wine will chide 
If ’tis not fill’d by Rosabelle.” 

—0 ’er Roslin all that dreary night 
A wondrous blaze was seen to 
gleam; 

’Twas broader than the watch-fires’ 
light 

And redder than the bright moon¬ 
beam. 

It glared on Roslin’s castled rock, 

It ruddied all the copse-wood glen; 

’Twas seen from Dryden’s groves of 
oak, 

And seen from cavern’d Hawthorn- 
den. 


Ballads 


Seem’d all on fire that chapel proud 
"Where Roslin’s chiefs uncoffin J d lie, 
Each Baron, for a sable shroud, 
Sheath’d in his iron panoply. 

Seem’d all on fire within, around, 
Deep sacristy and altar’s pale; 
Shone every pillar foliage-bound, 

And glimmer’d all the dead men’s 
mail. 

Blazed battlement and pinnet high, 
Blazed every rose-carved buttress 
fair— 

So still they blaze, when fate is nigh 
The lordly line of high St. Clair. 

There are twenty of Roslin’s barons 
bold 

Lie buried within that proud cha- 
pelle; 

Each one the holy vault doth hold, 
But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle! 

And each St. Clair was buried there, 
"With candle, with book, and with 
knell; 

But the sea-caves rung, and the wild 
winds sung, 

The dirge of lovely Rosabelle. 

Walter Scott. 

SKIPPER IRESON’S RIDE. 

Of all the rides since the birth of time, 
Told in story or sung in rhyme,— 

On Apuleius’s Golden Ass, 

Or one-eyed Calender’s horse of brass, 
Witch astride of a human back, 
Islam’s prophet on Al-Borak,— 

The strangest ride that ever was sped 
Was Ireson’s out from Marblehead! 

Body of turkey, head of fowl, 

Wings a-droop like a rained-on fowl, 
Feathered and ruffled in every part, 
Skipper Ireson stood in the cart, 


425 

Scores of women, old and young. 
Strong of muscle, and glib of tongue, 
Pushed and pulled up the rocky lane, 
Shouting and singing the shrill re¬ 
frain : 

‘ ‘ Here’s Flud Oirson, fur his horrd 
horrt, 

Torr’d an’ futherr’d an’ corr’d in 
a corrt 

By the women o ’ Morble ’ead! ’ ’ 

Wrinkled scolds with hands on hips, 
Girls in bloom of cheek and lips, 
Wild-eyed, free-limbed, such as chase 
Bacchus round some antique vase, 
Brief of skirt, with ankles bare, 

Loose of kerchief and loose of hair, 
With conch-shells blowing and fish- 
horns’ twang, 

Over and over the Maenads sang: 

‘ ‘ Here’s Flud Oirson, fur his horrd 
horrt, 

Torr’d an’ futherr’d an’ corr’d in 
a corrt 

By the women o ’ Morble ’ead! ’ ’ 

Small pity for him!—He sailed away 
From a leaking ship in Chaleur 
Bay- 

Sailed away from a sinking wreck, 
With his own town’s-people on her 
deck! 

1 ‘ Lay by! lay by! ” they called to him. 
Back he answered, ‘ ‘ Sink or swim! 
Brag of your catch of fish again!” 
And off he sailed through the fog and 
rain! 

Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard 
heart, 

Tarred and feathered and carried 
in a cart 

By the women of Marblehead! 

Fathoms deep in dark Chaleur 
That wreck shall lie forevermore. 


Poems for Children 


426 

Mother and sister, wife and maid, 
Looked from the rocks of Marblehead 
Over the moaning and rainy sea,— 
Looked for the coming that might not 
be! 

What did the winds and the sea-birds 
say 

Of the cruel captain who sailed 
away ?— 

Old Floyd Ireson, for his hard 
heart, 

Tarred and feathered and carried 
in a cart 

By the women of Marblehead! 

Through the street, on either side, 

Up flew windows, doors swung wide; 
Sharp-tongued spinsters, old wives 
gray, 

Treble lent the fish-horn’s bray. 
Sea-worn grandsires, cripple-bound, 
Hulks of old sailors run aground, 
Shook head, and fist, and hat, and 
cane, 

And cracked with curses the hoarse 
refrain: 

‘ ‘ Here’s Flud Oirson, fur his horrd 
horrt, 

Torr’d an’ futherr’d an’ corr’d in 
a corrt 

By the women 0 ’ Morble’ead!” 

Sweetly along the Salem road 
Bloom of orchard and lilac showed. 
Little the wicked skipper knew 
Of the fields so green and the sky so 
blue. 

Riding there in his sorry trim, 

Like an Indian idol glum and grim, 
Scarcely he seemed the sound to hear 
Of voices shouting, far and near: 

‘ ‘ Here’s Flud Oirson, fur his horrd 
horrt, 

Torr’d an’ futherr’d an’ corr’d in 
a corrt 

By the women 0 ’ Morble ’ead! ’ ’ 


“Hear me, neighbors!” at last he 
cried,— 

“What to me is this noisy ride? 

What is the shame that clothes the 
skin 

To the nameless horror that lives 
within ? 

Waking or sleeping, I see a wreck, 

And hear a cry from a reeling deck! 

Hate me and curse me,—I only dread 

The hand of God and the face of the 
dead!” 

Said old Floyd Ireson, for his hard 
heart, 

Tarred and feathered and carried 
in a cart 

By the women of Marblehead! 

Then the wife of the skipper lost at 
sea 

Said, “God has touched him! why 
should we!” 

Said an old wife mourning her only 
son, 

“Cut the rogue’s tether and let him 
run! ’ ’ 

So with soft relentings and rude ex¬ 
cuse, 

Half scorn, half pity, they cut him 
loose, 

And gave him a cloak to hide him in, 

And left him alone with his shame 
and sin, 

Poor Floyd Ireson, for his hard 
heart, 

Tarred and feathered and carried 
in a cart 

By the women of Marblehead! 

John Greenleaf Whittier. 


LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI. 

0 what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, 
Alone and palely loitering? 

The sedge has wither’d from the lake. 
And no birds sing. 


Ballads 


0 what can ail thee, knight-at-arms! 

So haggard and so woe-begone? 
The squirrel’s granary is full, 

Anfl. the harvest’s done. 

I see a lily on thy brow, 

With anguish moist and fever dew, 
And on thy cheeks a fading rose 
Fast withered too. 

I met a lady in the meads, 

Full beautiful—a faery’s child, 

Her hair was long, her foot was light, 
And her eyes were wild. 

I made a garland for her head, 

And bracelets too, and fragrant 
zone; 

She look’d at me as she did love, 

And made sweet moan. 

I set her on my pacing steed, 

And nothing else saw all day long, 
For sidelong she would bend and sing, 
A faery’s song. 

She found me roots of relish sweet, 
And honey wild and manna dew, 
And sure in language strange she 
said, 

“I love thee true.” 

She took me to her elfin grot, 

And there she wept, and sigh’d full 
sore, 

And there I shut her wild, wild eyes 
With kisses four. 

And there she lulled me asleep, 

And there I dream’d—Ah! woe 
betide! 

The latest dream I ever dream’d 
On the cold hill’s side. 


427 

I saw pale kings and princes too, 

Pale warriors, death-pale were they 
all; 

They cried—“La Belle Dame sans 
Merci 

Hath thee in thrall!” 

I saw their starved lips in the gloam, 
With horrid warning gaped wide, 
And I awoke and found me here, 

On the cold hill’s side. 

And this is why I sojourn here, 

Alone and palely loitering, 

Though the sedge is wither’d from the 
lake, 

And no birds sing. 

John Keats. 

ANNIE LAURIE. 

Maxwelton braes are bonnie 
Where early fa’s the dew, 

And it’s there that Annie Laurie 
Gie’d me her promise true— 

Gie’d me her promise true, 

Which ne’er forgot will be; 

And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
I’d lay me doune and dee. 

Her brow is like the snawdrift, 

Her throat is like the swan, 

Her face it is the fairest 
That e’er the sun shone on— 

That e ’er the sun shone on: 

And dark blue is her e ’e; 

And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
I’d lay me doune and dee. 

Like dew on the go wan lying 
Is the fa’ 0 ’ her fairy feet; 

Like the winds in summer sighing, 
Her voice is low and sweet— 

Her voice is low and sweet; 

And she’s a’ the world to me; 

And for bonnie Annie Laurie 
I’d lay me doune and dee. 

William Douglas of Fleugland. 


Poems for Children 


428 

LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER. 

A Chieftain to the Highlands bound 
Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry! 

And I’ll give thee a silver pound 
To row us 0 ’er the ferry! ’ ’ 

—“Now, who be ye, would cross 
Lochgyle 

This dark and stormy water?” 

—“0 I’m the chief of Ulva’s isle, 
And this, Lord Ullin’s daughter. 

“And fast before her father’s men 
Three days we’ve fled together, 

For should he find us in the glen, 

My blood would stain the heather. 

‘ ‘ His horsemen hard behind us ride— 
Should they our steps discover, 

Then who will cheer my bonny bride 
When they have slain her lover?” 

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, 
“I’ll go, my chief, I’m ready: 

It is not for your silver bright, 

But for your winsome lady:— 

“And by my word! the bonny bird 
In danger shall not tarry; 

So though the waves are raging white, 
I’ll row you o’er the ferry.” 

By this the storm grew loud apace, 
The water-wraith was shrieking; 

And in the scowl of heaven each face 
Grew dark as they were speaking. 

But still as wilder blew the wind, 

And as the night grew drearer, 

Adown the glen rode armed men, 
Their trampling sounded nearer. 

“0 haste thee, haste!” the lady cries, 
“Though tempest round us gather; 

I’ll meet the raging of the skies, 

But not an angry father!” 


The boat has left a stormy land, 

A stormy sea before her— 

When, 0! too strong for human hand 
The tempest gather’d o’er her. 

And still they row’d amidst the roar 
Of waters fast prevailing: 

Lord Ullin reach’d that fatal shore,— 
His wrath was changed to wailing. 

For, sore dismayed, through storm 
and shade 

His child he did discover:— 

One lovely hand she stretch’d for aid, 
And one was round her lover. 

“Come back! come back!” he cried 
in grief, 

“Across this stormy water: 

And I’ll forgive your Highland 
chief:— 

My daughter!—0 my daughter!” 

’Twas vain: the loud waves lash’d the 
shore, 

Return or aid preventing; 

The waters wild went o’er his child, 
And he was left lamenting. 

Thomas Campbell. 

JAFFAR. 

Jaffar, the Barmecide, the good 
Vizier, 

The poor man’s hope, the friend 
without a peer. 

Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom 
unjust; 

And guilty Haroun, sullen with mis¬ 
trust 

Of what the good, and e’en the bad 
might say, 

Ordain’d that no man living from 
that day 

Should dare to speak his name on 
pain of death. 

All Araby and Persia held their 
breath. 


Ballads 


All but the brave Mondeer.—He, 
proud to show 

How far for love a grateful soul could 
go, 

And facing death for very scorn and 
grief, 

(For his great heart wanted a great 
relief,) 

Stood forth in Bagdad, daily in the 
square 

Where once had stood a happy house, 
and there 

Harangued the tremblers at the 
scimitar 

On all they owed to the divine Jaffar. 


“Bring me this man,” the caliph 
cried: the man 

Was brought, was gazed upon. The 
mutes began 

To bind his arms. “Welcome, brave 
cords,” cried he; 

“From bonds far worse Jaffar de¬ 
liver ’d me; 

From wants, from shames, from love¬ 
less household fears; 

Made a man’s eyes friends with de¬ 
licious tears; 

Restor’d me, loved me, put me on a 
par 

With his great self. How can I pay 
Jaffar?” 


Haroun, who felt that on a soul like 
this 

The mightiest vengeance could but 
fall amiss, 

Now deigned to smile, as one great 
lord of fate 

Might smile upon another half as 
great. 

He said, “Let worth grow frenzied if 
it will; 

The caliph’s judgment shall be master 
still. 


429 

Go, and since gifts so move thee, take 
this gem, 

The richest in the Tartar’s diadem, 

And hold the giver as thou deemest 
fit.” 

“Gifts!” cried the friend. He took; 
and holding it 

High towards the heaven, as though 
to meet his star, 

Exclaimed, “This, too, I owe to thee, 
Jaffar!” 

Leigh Hunt . 


THE GLOVE AND THE LIONS. 

King Francis was a hearty king, and 
loved a royal sport, 

And one day, as his lions fought, sat 
looking on the court; 

The nobles fill’d the benches, and the 
ladies in their pride, 

And ’mongst them sat the Count de 
Lorge, with one for whom he 
sigh’d; 

And truly ’twas a gallant thing to see 
that crowning show— 

Valour and love, and a king above, 
and the royal beasts below. 


Ramped and roared the lions, with 
horrid, laughing jaws; 

They bit, they glared, gave blows like 
beams, a wind went with their 
paws; 

With wallowing might and stifled roar 
they rolled one on another, 

Till all the pit, with sand and mane, 
was in a thundrous smother; 

The bloody foam above the bars came 
whisking through the air; 

Said Francis, then, “Faith, gentle¬ 
men, we’re better here than 
there!” 


Poems for Children 


43 ° 

De Lorge’s love o’erheard the King, a 
beauteous, lively dame, 

With smiling lips, and sharp, bright 
eyes, which always seemed the 
same: 

She thought, ‘ ‘ The Count my lover, is 
as brave as brave can be, 

He surely would do wondrous things 
to show his love for me! 

King, ladies, lovers, all look on, the 
occasion is divine; 

I’ll drop my glove to prove his love, 
great glory will be mine! ,, 

She dropped her glove to prove his 
love, then looked at him and 
smiled; 

He bowed, and in a moment leaped 
among the lions wild; 

The leap was quick; return was quick; 
he has regained his place, 

Then threw the glove, but not with 
love, right in the lady’s face! 

‘‘In truth!” cried Francis, “rightly 
done!” and he rose from where 
he sat; 

“No love,” quoth he, “but vanity, 
sets love a task like that.” 

Leigh Hunt. 


THE OUTLAW’S SONG. 

The chough and crow to rest are gone, 
The owl sits in the tree, 

The hush’d wind wails with feeble 
moan, 

Like infant charity. 

The wild fire dances on the fen, 

The red star sheds its ray; 

Uprouse ye, then, my merry men! 

It is our opening day. 

Both child and nurse are fast asleep, 
And closed is every flower, 

And winking tapers faintly peep 
High from my lady’s bower; 


Bewildered hinds with shortened ken 
Shrink on their murky way; 
Uprouse ye, then, my merry men! 

It is our opening day. 


Nor board nor garner own we now, 
.Nor roof nor latched door, 

Nor kind mate, bound by holy vow, 
To bless a good man’s store; 
Noon lulls us in a gloomy den, 

And night is grown our day; 
Uprouse ye, then, my merry men, 
And use it as ye may. 

Joanna Baillie. 


KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF 
CANTERBURY. 

An ancient story I’ll tell you anon 
Of a notable prince, that was called 
King John; 

And he ruled England with main and 
with might, 

For he did great wrong and main¬ 
tained little right. 


And I’ll tell you a story, a story so 
merry, 

Concerning the Abbot of Canterbury; 

How for his housekeeping and high 
renown, 

They rode post for him to fair London 
town. 


An hundred men, the King did hear 

say, 

The Abbot kept in his house every 
day; 

And fifty gold chains, without any 
doubt, 

In velvet coats waited the Abbot 
about. 


Ballads 431 


‘‘How now, Father Abbot, I hear it 
of thee, 

Thou keepest a far better house than 
me; 

And for thy housekeeping and high 
renown, 

I fear thou work’st treason against 
my crown.” 

“My liege,” quo’ the Abbot, “I 
would it were knowne, 

I never spend nothing but what is my 
owne; 

And I trust your Grace will not put 
me in fear, 

For spending of my owne true-gotten 
gear.” 


“Yes, yes, Father Abbot, thy fault is 
highe, 

And now for the same thou needst 
must dye; 

For except thou canst answer me 
questions three, 

Thy head shall be smitten from thy 
bodie. 


“And first,” quo’ the King, “when 
I’m in this stead, 

With my crowns of gold so faire on 
my head, 

Among all my liege-men, so noble of 
birthe, 

Thou must tell to one penny what I 
am worthe. 

“Secondlye, tell me, without any 
doubt, 

How soon I may ride the whole world 
about, 

And at the third question thou must 
not shrink, 

But tell me here truly what I do 
think.” 


“Oh, these are tiard questions for my 
shallow witt, 

Nor can I answer your Grace as yet; 

But if you will give me but three 
weeks space, 

lie do my endeavor to answer your 
Grace.” 

“Now three weeks’ space to thee will 
I give, 

And that is the longest time thou hast 
to live; 

For if thou dost not answer my ques¬ 
tions three, 

Thy land and thy livings are forfeit 
to me.” 

Away rode the Abbot all sad at that 
word, 

And he rode to Cambridge and Oxen- 
ford; 

But never a doctor there was so wise, 

That could with his learning an an¬ 
swer devise. 

Then home rode the Abbot of comfort 
so cold, 

And he met his Shepherd a-going to 
fold: 

“How now, my Lord Abbot, you are 
welcome home; 

What news do you bring us from 
good King John?” 

“Sad news, sad news, Shepherd, I 
must give, 

That I have but three days more to 
live; 

I must answer the King his questions 
three, 

Or my head will be smitten from my 
bodie. 

“The first is to tell him, there in that 
stead, 

With his crown of gold so fair on his 
head, 


Poems for Children 


43 2 

Among all his liege-men so noble of 
birth 

To within one penny of what he is 
worth. 

“The seconde, to tell him, without 
any doubt, 

How soone he may ride this whole 
world about: 

And at the third question I must not 
shrinke, 

But tell him truly what he does 
thinke. ’* 

“Now cheare up. Sire Abbot, did you 
never hear yet, 

That a fool he may learne a wise man 
witt? 

Lend me a horse, and serving-men, 
and your apparel, 

And I’ll ride to London to answere 
your quarrel. 

“Nay, frowne not, if it hath bin told 
unto mee, 

I am like your Lordship, as ever may 
bee: 

And if you will but lend me your 
gowne, 

There is none shall know us in fair 
London towne.” 

“Now horses and serving-men thou 
shalt have, 

With sumptuous array most gallant 
and brave; 

With crozier, and mitre, and rochet, 
and cope, 

Fit to appear Tore our Father the 
Pope.” 

“Now welcome, Sire Abbot,” the 
King he did say, 

“ ’Tis well thou ’rt come back to keepe 
thy day; 


For and if thou canst answer my 
questions three, 

Thy living and thy life both saved 
shall bee. 

“And first, when thou seest me, here 
in this stead, 

With my crown of golde so fair on my 
head, 

Among all my liege-men so noble of 
birthe, 

Tell me to one penny what I am 
worthe. 5 ’ 

“For thirty pence our Saviour was 
sold 

Among the false Jews, as I have bin 
told: 

And twenty-nine is the worth of thee, 

For I thinke, thou art one penny 
worse than he.” 

The King he laughed, and swore by 
St. Bittel, 

“I did not think I had been worth so 
little! 

Now, secondly, tell me, without any 
doubt, 

How soon I may ride this whole world 
about.” 

“You must rise with the sun, and ride 
with the same, 

Until the next morning he riseth 
again; 

And then your Grace need not make 
any doubt 

But in twenty-four hours you’ll ride 
it about.” 

The King he laughed, and swore by 
St. Jone, 

“I did not think it could be done so 
soon. 

Now from the third question thou 
must not shrink, 

But tell me here truly what I do 
think.” 


Ballads 433 


“Yea, that I shall do and make your 
Grace merry; 

You think I’m the Abbot of Canter¬ 
bury ; 

But I’m his poor shepherd, as plain 
you may see, 

That am come to beg pardon for him 
and for me.” 


The King he laughed, and swore by 
the mass, 

“I’ll make thee Lord Abbot this day 
in his place! ’ ’ 


“Nay, nay, my Liege, be not in such 
speed, 

For alack, I can neither write nor 
read.” 

‘ ‘ Four nobles a week, then, I will give 
thee, 

For this merry jest thou hast shown 
unto me; 

And tell the old Abbot, when thou 
gettest home, 

Thou hast brought him a pardon from 
good King John. ’ ’ 

Unknown. 


• U .» w 


.* J 


1 



XIII 


Girlhood 


THE NAMES. 

In Christian world Mary the garland 
wears! 

Rebecca sweetens on a Hebrew’s ear; 

Quakers for pure Priscilla are more 
clear; 

And the light Gaul by amorous Ninon 
swears. 

Among the lesser lights how Lucy 
shines! 

What air of fragrance Rosamond 
throws around! 

How like a hymn doth sweet Cecilia 
sound! 

Of Marthas, and of Abigails, few 
lines 

Have bragg’d in verse. Of coarsest 
household stuff 

Should homely Joan be fashioned. 
But can 

You Barbara resist, or Marian? 

And is not Clare for love excuse 
enough ? 

Yet, by my faith in numbers, I pro¬ 
fess, 

These all, than Saxon Edith, please 
me less. 

Clnarles Lamb. 

TO A CHILD OF NOBLE BIRTH. 

My noble, lovely, little Peggy, 

Let this my First Epistle beg ye, 

At dawn of morn and close of even, 

To lift your heart and hands to 
Heaven. 

In double duty say your prayer: 

Our Father first, then Notre Fere. 


And, dearest child, along the day, 

In everything you do and say, 

Obey and please my lord and lady, 
So God shall love and angels aid ye. 
If to these precepts you attend, 

No second letter need I send, 

And so I rest your constant friend. 

Matthew Prior. 


CHERRY RIPE. 

Cherry ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry, 

Full and fair ones—come and buy. 
If so be you ask me where 
These do grow?—I answer: There 
Where my Julia’s lips do smile— 
Whose plantations fully show 
All the year where cherries grow. 

Robert Herrick. 


WINNY. 

Her blue eyes they beam and they 
twinkle, 

Her lips have made smiling more 
fair; 

On cheek and on brow there’s no 
wrinkle, 

But thousands of curls in her hair. 

She’s little,—you don’t wish her 
taller; 

Just half through her teens is her 
age; 

And baby or lady to call her, 

Were something to puzzle a sage! 


Girlhood 


Her walk is far better than dancing; 
She speaks as another might sing; 

And all by an innocent chancing, 

Like lambkins and birds in the 
spring. 

Unskilled in the airs of the city, 

She’s perfect in natural grace; 

She’s gentle, and truthful, and witty, 
And ne’er spends a thought on her 
face. 

Her face, with the fine glow that’s in 
it, 

As fresh as an apple-tree bloom; 

And 0! when she comes, in a minute, 
Like sunbeams she brightens the 
room. 

****** 

W illiam Ailing ham. 


LUCY’S BIRTHDAY. 

Seventeen rose-buds in a ring, 

Thick with sister flowers beset, 

In a fragrant coronet, 

Lucy’s servants this day bring. 

Be it the birthday wreath she wears 
Fresh and fair and symbolling 
The young number of her years, 

The sweet blushes of her spring. 

Types of youth and love and hope! 
Friendly hearts your mistress greet, 
Be you ever fair and sweet, 

And grow lovelier as you ope! 

Gentle nurseling, fenced about 
With fond care, and guarded so, 
Scarce you’ve heard of storms with¬ 
out, 

Frosts that bite or winds that blow! 

Kindly has your life begun, 

And we pray that Heaven may send 
To our floweret a warm sun, 

A calm summer, a sweet end. 


435 ' 

And where’er shall be her home, 

May she decorate the place; 

Still expanding into bloom, 

And developing in grace. 

William Makepeace Thackeray. 

TO A LITTLE GIRL. 

You taught me ways of gracefulness 
and fashions of address, 

The mode of plucking pansies and *he 
art of sowing cress, 

And how to handle puppies, with pro¬ 
pitiatory pats 

For mother dogs, and little acts of 
courtesy to cats. 

0 connoisseur of pebbles, colored 
leaves and trickling rills, 

Whom seasons fit as do the sheaths 
that wrap the daffodils, 

Whose eyes’ divine expectancy fore¬ 
tells some starry goal, 

You taught me here docility—and 
how to save my soul. 

Helen Parry Eden . 

TO HELEN. 

Helen, thy beauty is to me 
Like those Nicaean barks of yore, 
That gently, o’er a perfumed sea, 

The weary way-worn wanderer bore 
To his own native shore. 

On desperate seas long wont to roam, 
Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, 
Thy Naiad airs have brought me home 
To the glory that was Greece 
And the grandeur that was Rome. 

Lo! in your brilliant window-niche 
How statue-like I see thee stand 
The agate lamp within thy hand, 
Ah! Psyche, from the regions which 
Are Holy land. 

Edgar Allan Poe. 


Poems for Children 


43 6 

ROSE AYLMER. 

Aii! what avails the sceptred Race 
And what the form divine? 

What every virtue, every grace? 

Rose Aylmer, all were thine! 

Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful 
eyes 

May weep but never see, 

A night of memories and sighs 
I consecrate to thee. 

Walter Savage Landor. 

HAVE YOU SEEN A BRIGHT 
LILY GROW. 

Have you seen but a bright lily grow 
Before rude hands have touched it ? 
Have you marked but the fall of the 
snow, 

Before the soil hath smutched it ? 

Have you felt the wool of the beaver ? 
Or swan’s down ever? 

Or have smelt o’ the bud of the brier? 
Or the nard i’ the fire? 

Or have tasted the bag of the bee ? 

Oh, so white! oh, so soft! oh, so sweet, 
is she! 

Ben Jonson. 

TO DIANA. 

Queen and huntress, chaste and fair, 
Now the sun is laid to sleep, 

Seated in thy silver chair, 

State in wonted manner keep. 
Hesperus entreats thy light, 

Goddess, excellently bright. 

Earth, let not thy envious shade 
Dare itself to interpose; 

Cynthia’s shining orb was made 
Heaven to clear, when day did 
close; 

Bless us then ivith wished sight, 
Goddess, excellently bright. 


Lay thy bow of pearl apart, 

And thy crystal-shining quiver; 
Give unto the flying hart 

Space to breathe, how short soever: 
Thou that mak’st a day of night 
Goddess, excellently bright. 

Ben Jonson. 

WHO IS SILVIA? 

Who is Silvia? What is she, 

That all our swains commend her? 
Holy, fair, and wise is she; 

The heaven such grace did lend her, 
That she might admired be. 

Is she kind as she is fair? 

For beauty lives with kindness: 
Love doth to her eyes repair, 

To help him of his blindness; 

And, being helped, inhabits there. 

Then to Silvia let us sing, 

That Silvia is excelling; 

She excels each mortal thing 
Upon the dull earth dwelling; 

To her let us garlands bring. 

William Shakespeare . 

THE BEGGAR MAID. 

Her arms across her breast she laid; 
She was more fair than words can 
say: 

Bare-footed came the beggar maid 
Before the king Cophetua. 

In robe and crown the king stept 
down, 

To meet and greet her on her way; 
“It is no wonder,” said the lords, 
“She is more beautiful than day.” 

As shines the moon in clouded skies, 
She in her poor attire was seen: 
One praised her ankles, one her eyes, 
One her dark hair and lonesome 
mien. 


Girlhood 


So sweet a face, such angel grace, 

In all that land had never been: 
Cophetua sware a royal oath: 

“This beggar maid shall be my 
queen! ’ ’ 

Alfred Tennyson. 


SHE WAS A PHANTOM OF 
DELIGHT. 

She was a Phantom of delight 
When first she gleamed upon my 
sight; 

A lovely Apparition, sent 
To be a moment’s ornament; 

Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair; 
Like Twilight’s, too, her dusky hair: 
But all things else about her drawn 
From May-time and the cheerful 
Dawn. 

A dancing Shape, an Image gay, 

To haunt, to startle, and way-lay. 

I saw her upon nearer view, 

A Spirit, yet a Woman too! 

Her household motions light and free, 
And steps of virgin liberty; 

A countenance in which did meet 
Sweet records, promises as sweet; 

A Creature not too bright or good 
For human nature’s daily food; 

For transient sorrows, simple wiles. 
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and 
smiles. 

And now I see with eye serene 
The very pulse of the machine; 

A Being breathing thoughtful breath, 
A Traveller between life and death: 
The reason firm, the temperate will, 
Endurance, foresight, strength, and 
skill; 

A perfect Woman, nobly planned, 
To warn, to comfort, and command; 
And yet a Spirit still, and bright, 
With something of angelic light. 

William Wordsworth. 


437 

SHE DWELT AMONG THE 
UNTRODDEN WAYS. 

Siie dwelt among the untrodden ways 
Beside the springs of Dove, 

A maid whom there were none to 
praise, 

And very few to love: 

A violet by a mossy stone 
Half hidden from the eye!— 

Fair as a star, when only one 
Is shining in the sky. 

She lived unknown, and few could 
know 

When Lucy ceased to be: 

But she is in her grave, and, oh! 

The difference to me! 

William Wordsworth. 


MAUD. 

Birds in the high Hall-garden 
When twilight was falling, 

Maud, Maud, Maud, Maud, 

They were crying and calling. 

Where was Maud ? in our wood; 
And I, who else, was with her, 

Gathering woodland lilies, 
Myriads blow together. 

Birds in our woods sang 
Ringing thro’ the valleys, 

Maud is here, here, here, 

In among the lilies. 

I kiss’d her slender hand, 

She took the kiss sedately; 

Maud is not seventeen, 

But she is tall and stately. 

I to cry out on pride 

Who have won her favor; 

O Maud were sure of Heaven 
If lowliness could save her. 


Poems for Children 


438 

I know the way she went 
Home with her maiden posy, 

For her feet have touch’d the meadows 
And left the daisies rosy. 

Birds in the high Hall-garden 
Were crying and calling to her, 
Where is Maud, Maud, Maud? 

One is come to woo her. 

Look, a horse at the door, 

And little. King Charles is snarling, 
Go back, my lord, across the moor, 
You are not her darling. 

Alfred Tennyson . 


THE SOLITARY REAPER. 

Behold her, single in the field, 

Yon solitary Highland lass! 

Reaping and singing by herself; 

Stop here, or gently pass! 

Alone she cuts, and binds the grain, 
And sings a melancholy strain; 

0 listen! for the Vale profound 
Is overflowing with the sound. 

No nightingale did ever chant 
More welcome notes to weary bands 
Of travellers in some shady haunt, 
Among Arabian sands: 

A voice so thrilling ne’er was heard, 
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, 
Breaking the silence of the seas, 
Amongst the farthest Hebrides. 

Will no one tell me what she sings? 
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow 
For old, unhappy, far-off things, 

And battles long ago: 

Or is it some more humble lay, 
Familiar matter of to-day? 

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, 
That has been, and may be again! 


Whate’er the theme, the maiden sang 
As if her song could have no ending: 
I saw her singing at her work, 

And o’er the sickle bending;— 

I listened, motionless and still; 

And, as I mounted up the hill, 

The music in my heart I bore, 

Long after it was heard no more. 

William Wordsworth. 


THE MAY QUEEN. 

You must wake and call me early, call 
me early, mother dear; 

To-morrow ’ill be the happiest time of 
all the glad New-year; 

Of all the glad New-year, mother, the 
maddest merriest day; 

For I’m to be Queen 0’ the May, 
mother, I’m to be Queen 0’ the 
May. 

There’s many a black black eye, they 
say, but none so bright as mine; 

There’s Margaret and Mary, there’s 
Kate and Caroline: 

But none so fair as little Alice in all 
the land they say, 

So I’m to be Queen 0’ the May, moth¬ 
er, I’m to be Queen 0 ’ the May. 

I sleep so sound all night, mother, 
that I shall never wake, 

If you do not call me loud when the 
day begins to break: 

But I must gather knots of flowers, 
and buds and garlands gay, 

For I’m to be Queen 0’ the May, 
mother, I’m to be Queen 0’ the 
May. 

As I came up the valley whom think 
ye should I see, 

But Robin leaning on the bridge be¬ 
neath the hazel-tree? 


Girlhood 


He thought of that sharp look, 
mother, I gave him yesterday— 

But I’m to be Queen o’ the May, 
mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the 
May. 

He thought I was a ghost, mother, for 
I was all in white, 

And I ran by him without speaking, 
like a flash of light. 

They call me cruel-hearted, but I care 
not what they say, 

For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, 
mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the 
May. 

They say he’s dying all for love, but 
that can never be: 

They say his heart is breaking, mother 
—what is that to me ? 

There’s many a bolder lad ’ill woo me 
any summer day, 

And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, 
mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the 
May. 

Little Effie shall go with me to-morrow 
to the green, 

And you will be there, too, mother, to 
see me made the Queen; 

For the shepherd lads on every side 
will come from far away, 

And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, 
mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the 
May. 

The honeysuckle round the porch has 
wov’n its wavy bowers, 

And by the meadow-trenches blow the 
faint sweet cuckoo-flowers; 

And the wild marsh-marigold shines 
like fire in swamps and hollows 
gray, 

And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, 
mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the 
May. 


439 

The night winds come and go, mother, 
upon the meadow-grass, 

And the happy stars above them seem 
to brighten as they pass; 

There will not be a drop of rain the 
whole of the live-long day, 

And I’m to be Queen o’ the May, 
mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the 
May. 

All the valley, mother, will be fresh 
and green and still, 

And the cowslip and the crowfoot are 
over all the hill, 

And the rivulet in the flowery dale 
will merrily glance and play, 

For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, 
mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the 
May. 

So you must wake and call me early, 
call me early, mother dear, 
To-morrow ’ill be the happiest time of 
all the glad New-year: 

To-morrow ’ill be of all the year the 
maddest merriest day, 

For I’m to be Queen o’ the May, 
mother, I’m to be Queen o’ the 
May. 

Alfred Tennyson. 


NEW-YEAR’S EVE. 

If you’re waking call me early, call 
me early, mother dear. 

For I would see the sun rise upon the 
glad New-year. 

It is the last New-year that I shall 
ever see, 

Then you may lay me low i’ the mould 
and think no more of me. 

To-night I saw the sun set: he set and 
left behind 

The good old year, the dear old time, 
and all my peace of mind: 


Poems for Children 


44 ° 

And the New-year’s coming up, 
mother, but I shall never see 
The blossom on the blackthorn, the 
leaf upon the tree. 

Last May we made a crown of flowers: 

we had a merry day; 

Beneath the hawthorn on the green 
they made me Queen of May; 

And we danced about the may-pole 
and in the hazel copse, 

Till Charles’s Wain came out above 
the tall white chimney-tops. 

There’s not a flower on all the hills: 

the frost is on the pane: 

I only wish to live till the snowdrops 
come again: 

I wish the snow would melt and the 
sun come out on high: 

I long to see a flower so before the 
day I die. 

The building rook ’ill caw from the 
windy tall elm-tree, 

And the tufted plover pipe along the 
fallow lea, 

And the swallow ’ill come back again 
with summer o’er the wave, 

But I shall lie alone, mother, within 
the mouldering grave. 

Upon the chancel-casement, and upon 
that grave of mine, 

In the early early morning the sum¬ 
mer sun will shine, 

Before the red cock crows from the 
farm upon the hill, 

When you are warm-asleep, mother, 
and all the world is still. 

When the flowers come again, mother, 
beneath the waning light, 

You’ll never see me more in the long 
gray fields at night; 


When from the dry dark wold the 
summer airs blow cool 

On the oat-grass and the sword-grass, 
and the bulrush in the pool. 

You’ll bury me, my mother, just be¬ 
neath the hawthorn shade, 

And you’ll come sometimes and see 
me where I am lowly laid. 

I shall not forget you, mother, I shall 
hear you when you pass, 

With your feet above my head in the 
long and pleasant grass. 

I have been wild and wayward, but 
you ’ll forgive me now; 

You’ll kiss me, my own mother, and 
forgive me ere I go; 

Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let 
your grief be wild, 

You should not fret for me, mother, 
you have another child. 

If I can I’ll come again, mother, from 
out my resting-place; 

Though you’ll not see me, mother, I 
shall look upon your face; 

Though I cannot speak a word, I shall 
hearken what you say, 

And be often, often with you, when 
you think I’m far away. 

Good-night, good-night, when I have 
said good-night for evermore, 

And you see me carried out from the 
threshold of the door; 

Don’t let Effie come to see me till my 
grave be growing green: 

She’ll 'be a better child to you than 
ever I have been. 

She’ll find my garden-tools upon the 
granary floor: 

Let her take ’em: they are hers: I 
shall never garden more: 


Girlhood 


But tell her, when I’m gone, to train 
the rose-bush that I set, 

About the parlour window and the 
box of mignonette. 

Good-night, sweet mother; call me 
before the day is born. 

All night I lie awake, but I fall asleep 
at morn; 

But I would see the sun rise upon the 
glad New-year, 

So, if you’re waking, call me, call me 
early, mother dear. 

Alfred Tennyson. 


CONCLUSION TO THE MAY 
QUEEN AND NEW YEAR’S EVE. 

I thought to pass away before, and 
yet alive I am; 

And in the fields all round I hear the 
bleating of the lamb. 

How sadly, I remember, rose the 
morning of the year! 

To die before the snow-drop came, and 
now the violet’s here. 

0 sweet is the new violet, that comes 
beneath the skies, 

And sweeter is the young lamb’s voice 
to me that cannot rise, 

And sweet is all the land about, and 
all the flowers that blow, 

And sweeter far is death than life to 
me that long to go. 

It seemed so hard at first, mother, to 
leave the blessed sun, 

And now it seems as hard to stay, and 
yet His will be done! 

But still I think it can’t be long be¬ 
fore I find release: 

And that good man, the clergyman, 
has told me words of peace. 


44 1 

* i 

0, blessings on his kindly voice, and 
on his silver hair! 

And blessings on his whole life long, 
until he meet me there! 

0, blessings on his kindly heart, and 
on his silver head! 

A thousand times I blest him, as he 
knelt beside my bed. 

He taught me all the mercy, for he 
showed me all the sin. 

Now, though my lamp was lighted 
late, there’s One will let me in: 

Nor would I now be well, mother, 
again if that could be, 

For my desire is but to pass to Him 
that died for me. 

I did not hear the dog howl, mother, 
or the dead-watch beat, 

There came a sweeter token when the 
night and morning meet: 

But sit beside my bed, mother, and 
put your hand in mine, 

And Effie on the other side, and I will 
tell the sign. 

All in the wild March-morning I 
heard the angels call; 

It was when the moon was setting, 
and the dark was over all; 

The trees began to whisper, and the 
wind began to roll, 

And in the wild March-morning I 
heard them call my soul. 

For, lying broad awake, I thought of 
you and Effie dear; 

I saw you sitting in the house, and I 
no longer here; 

With all my strength I prayed for 
both, and so I felt resigned, 

And up the valley came a swell of 
music on the wind. 


Poems for Children 


442 

I thought that it was fancy, and I 
listened in my bed, 

And then did something speak to me— 
I know not what was said; 

For great delight and shuddering took 
hold of all my mind, 

And up the valley came again the 
music on the wind. 


But you were sleeping; and I said, 
“ It’s not for them, it ’s mine; ’ ’ 

And if it comes three times, I thought, 
I take it for a sign. 

And once again it came, and close 
beside the window-bars, 

Then seemed to go right up to Heaven 
and die among the stars. 

So now I think my time is near. I 
trust it is, I know 

The blessed music went that way my 
soul will have to go. 

And for myself, indeed, I care not if 
I go to-day. 

But, Effie, you must comfort her when 
I am past away. 

And say to Robin a kind word, and 
tell him not to fret; 

There’s many worthier than I, would 
make him happy yet. 

If I had lived—I cannot tell—I might 
have been his wife; 

But all these things have ceased to be, 
with my desire of life. 

0 look! the sun begins to rise, the 
heavens are in a glow; 

He shines upon a hundred fields, and 
all of them I know; 

And there I move no longer now, and 
there his light may shine— 

Wild flowers in the valley for other 
hands than mine. 


0, sweet and strange it seems to me, 
that ere this day is done 
The voice, that now is speaking, may 
be beyond the sun— 

For ever and for ever with those just 
souls and true— 

And what is life, that we should 
moan ? why make we such ado ? 

For ever and for ever, all in a blessed 
home— 

And there to wait a little while till 
you and Effie come— 

To be within the light of God, as I lie 
upon your breast— 

And the wicked cease from troubling, 
and the weary are at rest. 

Alfred Tennyson. 


HESTER. 

When maidens such as Hester die, 
Their place ye may not well supply, 
Though ye among a thousand try, 
With vain endeavour. 

A month or more hath she been dead, 
Yet cannot I by force be led 
To think upon the wormy bed, 

And her together. 

A springy motion in her gait, 

A rising step did indicate 
Of pride and joy no common rate, 
That flush’d her spirit. 

I know not by what name beside 
I shall it call:—if ’twas not pride, 

It was a joy to that allied, 

She did inherit. 

Her parents held the Quaker rule, 
Which doth the human feeling cool, 
But she was train’d in Nature’s 
school, 

Nature had blest her. 


Girlhood 


443 


A waking eye, a prying mind, 

A heart that stirs, is hard to bind, 

A hawk’s keen sight ye cannot blind, 
Ye could not Hester. 

My sprightly neighbour, gone before 
To that unknown and silent shore, 
Shall we not meet as heretofore, 

Some summer morning. 

When from thy cheerful eyes a ray 
Hath struck a bliss upon the day, 

A bliss that would not go away, 

A sweet forewarning? 

Charles Lamb . 


A PORTRAIT. 

I will paint her as I see her: 

Ten times have the lilies blown, 

Since she looked upon the sun. 

And her face is lily-clear— 
Lily-shaped, and drooped in duty 
To the law of its own beauty. 

Oral cheeks encolored faintly, 

Which a trail of golden hair 
Keeps from fading off to air: 

And a forehead fair and saintly, 
Which two blue eyes undershine, 

Like meek prayers before a shrine. 

Face and figure of a child— 

Though too calm, you think, and 
tender, 

For the childhood you would lend her. 

Yet child—simple, undefiled, 

Frank, obedient—waiting still 
On the turnings of your will. 

Moving light, as all young things— 
As young birds, or early wheat 
When the wind blows over it. 


Only free from flutterings 
Of loud mirth that scorneth meas¬ 
ure— 

Taking love for her chief pleasure. 

Choosing pleasures (for the rest) 
Which come softly—just as she, 

When she nestles at your knee. 

Quiet talk she likest best, 

In a bower of gentle looks— 
Watering flowers, or reading books. 

And her voice, it murmurs lowly, 

As a silver stream may run, 

Which yet feels, you feel, the sun. 

And her smile, it seems half holy, 

As if drawn from thoughts more fair 
Than our common jestings are. 

And if any poet knew her, 

He would sing of her with falls 

Used in lovely madrigals. 

• 

And if any painter drew her, 

He would paint her unaware 
With a halo round her hair. 

And if reader read the poem, 

He would whisper, “You have done a 
Consecrated little Una!” 

And a dreamer (did you show him 
That same picture) would exclaim, 

“ ’Tis my angel, with a name!” 

And a stranger—when he sees her 
In the street even—smileth stilly, 
Just as you would at a lily. 

And all voices that address her, 
Soften, sleeken every word, 

As if speaking to a bird. 


Poems for Children 


444 

And all fancies yearn to cover 
The hard earth whereon she passes 
With the thymy scented grasses. 

And all hearts do pray, “God love 
her! ’’ 

Ay, and always, in good sooth, 

We may all be sure He doth. 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning . 

THE SANDS OF DEE. 

“0 Mary, go and call the cattle home, 
And call the cattle home, 

And call the cattle home, 

Across the sands of Dee! ’ ’ 

The western wind was wild and dank 
with foam, 

And all alone went she. 

The western tide came np along the 
sand, 

And o’er and o’er the sand, 

And ronnd and round the sand, 
As far as eye could see; 

The rolling mist came down and hid 
the land, 

And never home came she. 

Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair 
A tress of golden hair, 

Of drowned maiden’s hair 
Above the nets at sea? 

Was never salmon yet that shone so 
fair 

Among the stakes at Dee! 

They rowed her in across the rolling 
foam, 

The cruel, crawling foam, 

The cruel, hungry foam, 

To her grave beside the sea: 

But still the boatmen hear her call the 
cattle home 

Across the sands of Dee. 

Charles Kingsley . 


LADY CLARE. 

It was the time when lilies blow, 

And clouds are highest up in air, 

Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe 
To give his cousin, Lady Clare. 

I trow they did not part in scorn; 
Lovers long betroth’d were they; 

They two will wed the morrow morn; 
God’s blessing on the day! 

‘ ‘ He does not love me for my birth, 
Nor for my lands so broad and fair; 

He loves me for my own true worth, 
And that is well, ’ ’ said Lady Clare. 

In there came old Alice the nurse, 
Said, “Who was this that went 
from thee?” 

‘ ‘ It was my cousin, ’ ’ said Lady Clare, 
“To-morrow he weds with me.” 

“0 God be thank’d!” said Alice the 

nurse, 

“That all comes round so just and 
fair: 

Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands, 
And you are not the Lady Clare.” 

“Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, 
my nurse, ’ ’ 

Said Lady Clare, ‘ ‘ that ye speak so 
wild?” 

“As God’s above,” said Alice the 
nurse, 

“I speak the truth: you are my 
child. 

“The old Earl’s daughter died at my 
breast; 

I speak the truth, as I live by 
bread! 

I buried her like my own sweet child, 
And put my child in her stead.” 


Girlhood 


44 S 


“Falsely, falsely have ye done, 

0 mother,” she said, “if this be 
true, 

To keep the best man under the sun 

So many years from his due. ’’ 

“Nay now, my child,’’ said Alice the 
nurse, 

“But keep the secret for your life, 

And all you have will be Lord 
Ronald’s, 

When you are man and wife.” 

“ If I’m a beggar born , 9 ’ she said, 

‘ ‘ I will speak out, for I dare not lie. 

Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold, 

And fling the diamond necklace 
by.” 

“Nay now, my child,” said Alice the 
nurse, 

‘ ‘ But keep the secret all ye can . 9 9 

She said ‘ ‘ Not so: but I will know 

If there be any faith in man.” 

“Nay now, what faith?” said Alice 
the nurse, 

* ‘ The man will cleave unto his 
right. ’ 9 

“And he shall have it,” the lady re¬ 
plied, 

‘ ‘ Tho ’ I should die to-night . 9 9 

“Yet give one kiss to your mother 
dear! 

Alas! my child, I sinn’d for thee.” 

“0 mother, mother, mother,” she 
said, 

11 So strange it seems to me. 

“Yet here’s a kiss for my mother 
dear, 

My mother dear, if this be so, 

And lay your hand upon my head, 

And bless me, mother, ere I go.” 


She clad herself in a russet gown, 

She was no longer Lady Clare: 

She went by dale, and she went by 
down, 

With a single rose in her hair. 

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had 
brought 

Leapt up from where she lay, 

Dropt her head in the maiden’s hand, 

And follow’d her all the way. 

Down stept Lord Ronald from his 
tower, 

“0 Lady Clare, you shame your 
worth! 

Why come you drest like a village 
maid, 

That are the flower of the earth?” 

“If I come drest like a village maid, 

I am but as my fortunes are: 

I am a beggar born,” she said, 

“And not the Lady Clare.” 

“Play me no tricks,” said Lord 
Ronald, 

“For I am yours in words and in 
deed. 

Play me no tricks,” said Lord 
Ronald, 

“Your riddle is hard to read.” 

0 and proudly stood she up! 

Her heart within her did not fail: 

She look’d into Lord Ronald’s eyes, 

And told him all her nurse’s tale. 

He laugh’d a laugh of merry scorn: 

He turn’d and kiss’d her where she 
stood. 

“If you are not the heiress born, 

And I,” said he, “the next in 
blood— 


Poems for Children 


446 

‘ ‘ If you are not the heiress born, 

And I,” said he, “the lawful heir, 
We two will wed to-morrow morn, 
And you shall still be Lady Clare.’ * 

Alfred Tennyson. 


PROUD MAISIE. 

Proud Maisie is in the wood, 
Walking so early; 

Sweet Robin sits on the bush, 
Singing so rarely. 

“Tell me, thou bonny bird, 

When shall I marry me ? ’ ’ 

“When six braw gentlemen 
Kirkward shall carry ye.” 

1 ‘ Who makes the bridal bed, 

Birdie, say truly?” 

“The grey-headed sexton 

That delves the grave duly. 

“The glow-worm o’er grave and stone 
Shall light thee steady; 

The owl from the steeple sing 
Welcome, proud lady.” 

Walter Scott. 


ANNABELLE LEE. 

It was many and many a year ago, 

In a kingdom by the sea, 

That a maiden there lived whom you 
may know 

By the name of Annabelle Lee; 

And this maiden she lived with no 
other thought, 

Than to love and be loved by me. 

I was a child, and she was a child, 

In this kingdom by the sea; 

But we loved with a love that was 
more than love, 


I and my Annabelle Lee: 

With a love that the winged seraphs 
of heaven 

Coveted her and me. 

And this was the reason that long ago, 
In this kingdom by the sea, 

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 
My beautiful Annabelle Lee, 

So that her high-born kinsman came, 
And bore her away from me, 

To shut her up in a sepulchre, 

In this kingdom by the sea. 

# # % # =& # 

But the moon never beams without 
bringing me dreams 
Of the beautiful Annabelle Lee; 
And the stars never rise but I feel the 
bright eyes 

Of the beautiful Annabelle Lee; 
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down 
by the side 

Of my darling—my darling—my life 
and my bride, 

In the sepulchre there by the sea, 

In the tomb by the sounding sea. 

Edgar Allan Poe. 
MY PEGGY. 

My Peggy is a young thing, 

Just entered in her teens, 

Fair as the day, and always gay, 

My Peggy is a young thing, 

And I’m not very auld, 

Yet well I like to meet her at 
The wauking of the fauld. 

# # * * «= # 

My Peggy sings sae saftly, 

When on my pipe I play; 

By a’ the rest it is confest, 

By a’ the rest, that she sings best. 

My Peggy sings sae saftly, 

And in her sangs are tauld, 

With innocence, the wale of sense, 

At wauking of the fauld. 

Allan Ramsay. 


Girlhood 


THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN. 

At the corner of Wood Street, when 
daylight appears, 

Hangs a Thrush that sings loud—it 
has sung for three years; 

Poor Susan has passed by the spot, 
and has heard 

In the silence of morning the song of 
the Bird. 

’Tis a note of enchantment: what ails 
her? She sees 

A mountain ascending, a vision of 
trees; 

Bright volumes of vapor through 
Lothbury glide, 

And a river flows on through the vale 
of Cheapside. 

Green pastures she views in the midst 
of the dale, 

Down which she so often has tripped 
with her pail; 

And a single small cottage, a nest like 
a dove’s, 

The one only dwelling on earth that 
she loves. 

She looks, and her heart is in heaven: 
but they fade, 

The mist and the river, the hill and 
the shade; 

The stream will not flow, and the hill 
will not rise, 

And the colors have all passed away 
from her eyes! 

William Wordsworth. 


THE GYPSY GIRL. 

Passing I saw her as she stood beside 
A lonely stream between two barren 
wolds; 

Her loose vest hung in rudely gath¬ 
ered folds 


447 

On her swart bosom, which in maiden 
pride 

Pillowed a string of pearls; among 
her hair 

Twined the light bluebell and the 
stone-crop gay; 

And not far thence the small encamp¬ 
ment lay, 

Curling its wreathed smoke into the 
air. 

She seemed a child of some sun- 
favored clime; 

So still, so habited to warmth and 
rest; 

And in my wayward musings on past 
time, 

When my thought fills with treasured 
memories, 

That image nearest borders on the 
blest 

Creations of pure art that never dies. 

Henry Alford. 


RUTH. 

She stood breast-high amid the corn, 
Clasp’d by the golden light of morn, 
Like the sweetheart of the sun, 

Who many a glowing kiss had won. 

On her cheek an autumn flush, 
Deeply ripen’d: such a blush 
In the midst of brown was born, 

Like red poppies grown with corn. 

Round her eyes her tresses fell, 
Which were blackest none could tell, 
But long lashes veil’d a light 
That had else been all too bright. 

And her hat, with shady brim, 

Made her tressy forehead dim; 

Thus she stood amid the stooks, 
Praising God with sweetest looks. 


Poems for Children 


448 

“Sure,” I said, “Heav’n did not 
mean 

Where I reap thou shouldst but 
glean; 

Lay thy sheaf adown and come, 

Share my harvest and my home.” 

Thomas Hood . 

O MALLY’S MEEK, MALLY’S 
SWEET. 

As I was walking up the street, 

A barefit maid I chanced to meet; 
But 0 the road was very hard 

For that fair maiden’s tender feet. 
O Mally’s meek, Mally’s sweet, 
Mally’s modest and discreet, 
Mally’s rare, Mally’s fair, 
Mally’s every way complete. 

It were more meet that those fine feet 
Were weel laced up in silken shoon, 
And ’twere more fit that she should 
sit 

Within yon chariot gilt aboon. 

Her yellow hair, beyond compare, 
Comes trinkling down her swan-like 
neck, 

And her two eyes, like stars in skies, 
Would keep a sinking ship frae 
wreck. 

0 Mally’s meek, Mally’s sweet, 
Mally’s modest and discreet, 
Mally’s rare, Mally’s fair, 
Mally’s every way complete. 

Robert Burns . 

LUCY. 

Three years she grew in sun and 
shower; 

Then Nature said, “A lovelier flower 
On earth was never sown: 

This child I to myself will take; 

She shall be mine, and I will make 
A lady of my own. 


‘ ‘ Myself wilt to my darling be 
Both law and impulse: and with me 
The girl in rock and plain, 

In earth and heaven, in glade and 
bower, 

Shall feel an overseeing power 
To kindle or restrain. 

‘ ‘ She shall be sportive as the fawn 
That, wild with glee, across the lawn 
Or up the mountain springs; 

And hers shall be the healing balm, 
And hers the silence and the calm 
Of mute insensate things. 

“The floating clouds their state shall 
lend 

To her: for her the willow bend; 

Nor shall she fail to see 
E’en in the motions of the storm 
Grace that shall mould the maiden’s 
form 

By silent sjmipathy. 

“The stars of midnight shall be dear 
To her; and she shall lean her ear 
In many a secret place 
Where rivulets dance their wayward 
round, 

And beauty born of murmuring sound 
Shall pass into her face. 

“And vital feelings of delight 
Shall rear her form to stately height, 
Her virgin bosom swell; 

Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
While she and I together live 
Here in this happy dell.” 

Thus Nature spake—the work was 
done— 

How soon my Lucy’s race was run! 
She died and left to me 
This heath, this calm and quiet scene; 
The memory of what has been, 

And nevermore will be. 

William Wordsworth. 



Girlhood 


CHLOE. 

It was the charming month of May, 
When all the flowers were fresh and 
gay 

One morning by the break of day, 
The youthful, charming Chloe 
From peaceful slumbers she arose, 
Girt on her mantle and her hose, 

And o’er her flowery mead she goes, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 
Lovely was she by the dawn, 

Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, 
Tripping o’er the pearly lawn, 

The youthful, charming Chloe. 

The feathered people you might see, 
Perch’d all around on every tree, 

In notes of sweetest melody 
They hail the charming Chloe; 

Till painting gay the eastern skies, 
The glorious sun begins to rise, 
Outrivall’d by the radiant eyes 
Of youthful, charming Chloe. 
Lovely was she by the dawn, 

Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, 
Tripping o’er the pearly lawn, 

The youthful, charming Chloe. 

Robert Burns. 


MY NANNIE’S AW A’. 

Now in her green mantle blythe Na¬ 
ture arrays, 

An’ listens the lambkins that bleat 
o’er the braes; 

While birds warble welcome in ilka 
green shaw; 

But to me it’s delightless—my Nan¬ 
nie’s awa’. 

The snaw-drap an ’ primrose our 
woodlands adorn, 

An’ violets bathe in the weet o’ the 
morn; 


449 

They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly 
they blaw, 

They mind me o’ Nannie—an’ Nan¬ 
nie’s awa’. 

Thou lav’rock that springs frae the 
dews of the lawn, 

The shepherd to warn o’ the gray¬ 
breaking dawn, 

An’ thou mellow mavis that hails the 
night-fa ’, 

Give over for pity—my Nannie’s 
awa’. 

Come, autumn, sae pensive, in yellow 
an’ gray, 

An’ soothe me wi’ tidings o’ Nature’s 
decay; 

The dark, dreary winter, an’ wild¬ 
driving snaw, 

Alane can delight me—now Nannie’s 
awa’. 

Robert Burns . 


I LOVE MY JEAN. 

Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west, 

For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie I lo’e best; 

There wild woods grow, and rivers 
row, 

And monie a hill between; 

But day and night my fancy’s flight 
Is ever wi’ my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair; 

I hear her in the tunefu’ birds, 

I hear her charm the air: 

There’s not a bonnier flower that 
springs 

By fountain shaw or green; 
There’s not a bonnie bird that sings, 
But minds me o’ my Jean. 

Robert Burns. 


Poems for Children 


45° 

MARIEN LEE. 

Not a care hath Marien Lee, 
Dwelling by the sounding sea! 

Her young life’s a flowery way:— 
Without toil from day to day. 
Without bodings for the morrow— 
Marien was not made for sorrow! 
Like the summer-billows wild, 
Leaps the happy-hearted child; 

Sees her father’s fishing-boat 
O’er the waters gaily float; 

Hears her brother’s fishing-song 
On the light gale borne along; 

Half a league she hears the lay, 
Ere they turn into the bay, 

And with glee, o’er cliff and main, 
Sings an answer back again, 

Which by man and boy is heard, 
Like the carol of a bird. 

Look, she sitteth laughing there, 
Wreathing sea-weed in her hair; 
Saw ye e ’er a thing so fair ? 

Go, thou sweet one, all day long, 
Like a glad bird pour thy song; 
And let thy young, graceful head, 
Be with sea-flowers garlanded; 

For all outward signs of glee, 

Well befit thee, Marien Lee! 

Mary Howitt. 


TO MISTRESS MARGARET 
HUSSEY. 

Merry Margaret 
As midsummer flower— 
Gentle as falcon, 

Or hawk of the tower; 

With solace and gladness, 
Much mirth and no madness, 
All good and no badness; 

So joyously, 

So maidenly, 

So womanly 
Her demeaning,— 

In everything 
Far, far passing 


That I can indite 
Or suffice to write, 

Of merry Margaret, 

As midsummer flower, 

Gentle as falcon 
Or hawk of the tower; 

As patient and as still, 

And as full of good-will, 

As fair Isiphil, 

Coliander. 

Sweet Pomander, 

Good Cassander; 

Steadfast of thought, 

Well made, well wrought; 

Far may be sought 
Ere you can find 
So courteous, so kind, 

As merry Margaret, 

This midsummer flower— 

Gentle as falcon 
Or hawk of the tower. 

'John Skelton. 

SHE WALKS IN BEAUTY. 

She walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies r 

And all that’s best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes; 

Thus mellowed to that tender light 
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less 
. Had half impaired the nameless 
grace, 

Which waves in every raven tress, 

Or softly lightens o ’er her face; 

Where thoughts serenely sweet ex¬ 
press, 

How pure, how dear, their dwelling 
place. 

And on that cheek, and o’er that 
brow, 

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 

The smiles that win, the tints that 
glow, 


Girlhood 


But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 

A heart whose love is innocent. 

George Gordon Byron. 


THE NIGHT-PIECE. 

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, 
The shooting stars attend thee; 

And the little elves also, 

Whose little eyes glow 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 

No Will-o ’-the-Wisp inislight thee, 
Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee; 

But on, on thy way, 

Not making a stay, 

Since ghost there’s none to affright 
thee. 

Let not the dark thee cumber; 

What though the moon does slumber? 
The stars of the night 
Will lend thee their light, 

Like tapers clear, without number. 

Then, Julia, let me woo thee, 

Thus, thus, to come unto me; 

And when I shall meet 
Thy silvery feet, 

My soul I’ll pour into thee. 

Robert Herrick. 


PHYLLIS. 

In petticoat of green, 

Her hair about her eyne, 

Phyllis beneath an oak 
Sat milking her fair flock; 
’Mongst that sweet-strained moisture, 
rare delight, 

Her hand seemed milk, in milk it was 
so white. 

William Drummond. 


451 

ON THE BIRTHDAY OF A 
YOUNG LADY. 

FOUR YEARS OLD. 

Old creeping time, with silent tread, 
Has stol’n four years o’er Molly’s 
head: 

The rosebud opens on her cheek, 

The meaning eyes begin to speak; 
And in each smiling look is seen 
The innocence which plays within. 
Nor is the faltering tongue confined 
To lisp the dawning of the mind, 

But firm and full her words convey 
The little all they have to say, 

And each fond parent, as they fall, 
Finds volumes in that little all. 

May every charm which now appears 
Increase and brighten with her years! 
And may that same old creeping time 
Go on till she has reached her prime, 
Then, like a master of his trade, 
Stand still, nor hurt the work he 
made. 

William Whitehead. 


JULIA. 

Some asked me where the rubies grew, 
And nothing did I say, 

But with my finger pointed to 
The lips of Julia. 

Some asked how pearls did grow, and 
where, 

Then spake I to my girl, 

To part her lips, and show me there 
The quarelets of pearl. 

One asked me where the roses grew, 

I bade him not go seek; 

But forthwith made my Julia shew 
A bud on either cheek. 

Robert Herrick. 


452 Poems for 

A FAREWELL. 

My fairest child, I have no song to 
give you; 

No lark could pipe to skies so dull 
and grey: 

Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can 
leave you 
For every day. 


Children 

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will 
be clever, 

Do noble things, not dream them, 
all day long; 

And so make life, death, and that 
vast for-ever 

One grand, sweet song. 

Charles Kingsley. 


XIV 


Poems of Praise 


MORNING HYMN. 

Awake, my soul, and with the sun 
Thy daily stage of duty run; 

Shake off dull sloth, and early rise 
To pay thy morning sacrifice. 

Redeem thy misspent moments past, 
And live this day as if thy last; 

Thy talents to improve take care; 

For the Great Day thyself prepare. 

Let all thy converse be sincere, 

Thy conscience as the noonday clear; 
For God’s all-seeing eye surveys 
Thy secret thoughts, thy works and 
ways. 

Wake, and lift up thyself, my heart, 
And with the Angels bear thy part, 
Who all night long unwearied sing 
High glory to the Eternal King. 

Glory to thee! who safe hast kept 
And hast refreshed me while I slept; 
Grant, Lord, when I from death shall 
wake 

I may of endless life partake. 

Lord, I my vows to Thee renew! 
Scatter my sins as morning dew: 
Guard my first spring of thought and 
will, 

And with Thyself my spirit fill. 


Direct, control, suggest, this day, 

All I design, or do or say; 

That all my powers, with all their 
might, 

In Thy sole glory may unite. 

Thomas Ken. 


MORNING HYMN. 

Now the dreary night is done, 
Comes again the glorious sun, 
Crimson clouds, and silver white, 
Wait upon his breaking light. 

Glistening in the garden beds, 
Flowers lift up their dewy heads, 
And the shrill cock claps his wings, 
And the merry lark upsprings. 

When the eastern sky is red, 

I, too, lift my little head. 

When the lark sings loud and gay, 
I, too, rise to praise and pray. 

Saviour, to Thy cottage home 
Once the daylight used to come; 
Thou hast ofttimes seen it break 
Brightly o’er that eastern lake. 

M. JJU JA. M* 

W W W WWW 

With Thee, Lord, I would arise, 

To Thee look with opening eyes, 

All the day be at my side, 

Saviour, Pattern, King, and Guide. 

Cecil Frances Alexander. 


454 


Poems for Children 


HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS. 

Oh ! lovely voices of the sky 
Which hymned the Saviour’s birth, 
Are ye not singing still on high, 

Ye that sang, “Peace on earth”? 
To us yet speak the strains 
Wherewith, in time gone by, 
Ye blessed the Syrian swains, 

Oh! voices of the sky! 

Oh! clear and shining light, whose 
beams 

That hour Heaven’s glory shed, 
Around the palms, and o’er the 
streams, 

And on the shepherd’s head. 

Be near, through life and death, 
As in that holiest night 
Of hope, and joy, and faith— 

Oh! clear and shining light! 

*#«■##* 

Felicia Hemans. 

A CHILD’S MORNING PRAYER. 

I thank Thee, Lord, for quiet rest, 
And for Thy care of me: 

Oh! let me through this day be blest, 
And kept from harm by Thee. 

Oh, let me love Thee! kind Thou art 
To children such as I; 

Give me a gentle, holy heart, 

Be Thou my Friend on high. 

Help me to please my parents dear, 
And do whate ’er they tell; 

Bless all my friends, both far and 
near, 

And keep them safe and well. 

Mary Lundie Duncan . 


PRAYERS. 

When I kneel down my prayers to 
say, 

I must not think of toys or play; 

No! I must think what I should be, 
To please God who is good to me. 

He loves to see a little child 
Obedient—patient, too—and mild; 
Nor. often angry, but inclined 
Always to do what’s good and kind. 

And I must love my dear mamma, 

And I must love my dear papa; 

And try to please them, and to do 
Things that are right, and say what’s 
true. 

For God is always pleased to see 
Even little children such as we, 
Whose hearts (as angels’ are above) 
Are full of peace and full of love. 

Flora Hastings. 


A CHILD’S HYMN OF PRAISE. 

I thank the goodness and the grace 
Which on my birth have smil’d, 

And made me, in these Christian days, 
A happy English child. 

I was not born, as thousands are, 
Where God was never known; 

And taught to pray a useless prayer, 
To blocks of wood and stone. 

I was not born a little slave, 

To labor in the sun, 

And wish I were but in the grave, 
And all my labor done! 

I was not born without a home, 

Or in some broken shed; 

A gipsy baby; taught to roam, 

And steal my daily bread. 


Poems of Praise 


455 


My God, I thank Thee, who hast 
planned 

A better lot for me, 

And placed me in this happy land, 
Where I may hear of Thee. 

Jane Taylor. 


A CHILD’S GRACE. 

Here a little child I stand 
Heaving np my either hand. 

Cold as Paddocks though they be, 
Here I lift them up to Thee, 

For a Benizon to fall 
On our meat, and on us all. 

Robert Herrick. 


THE CREATION. 

All things bright and beautiful, 
All creatures, great and small, 
All things wise and wonderful, 
The Lord God made them all. 

Each little flower that opens, 
Each little bird that sings, 

He made their glowing colors, 

He made their tiny wings; 

The rich man in his castle, 

The poor man at his gate, 

God made them, high or lowly, 
And order’d their estate. 

The purple-headed mountain, 

The river running by, 

The sunset and the morning 
That brightens up the sky; 

The cold wind in the winter, 

The pleasant summer sun, 

The ripe fruits in the garden— 
He made them every one. 


The tall trees in the greenwood, 
The meadows where we play, 

The rushes by the water 
We gather every day;— 

He gave us eyes to see them, 

And lips that we might tell 
How great is God Almighty 
Who has made all things well! 

Cecil Frances Alexander. 


“THE SON OF GOD GOES FORTH 
TO WAR.” 

The Son of God goes forth to war, 

A kingly crown to gain; 

His blood-red banner streams afar! 

Who follows in His train? 

Who best can drink his cup of woe, 
Triumphant over pain, 

Who patient bears his cross below, 
He follows in His train! 

Thy martyr first,, whose eagle eye 
Could pierce beyond the grave; 
Who saw his Master in the sky, 

And called on Him to save: 

Like Him, with pardon on his tongue, 
In midst of mortal pain, 

He prayed for them that did the 
wrong! 

Who follows in His train? 

A glorious band, the chosen few. 

On whom the Spirit came; 

Twelve valiant saints, their hope they 
knew, 

And mocked the cross and flame! 
They met the tyrant’s brandished 
steel, 

The lion’s gory mane: 

They bowed their necks, the death to 
feel! 

Who follows in their train? 


Poems for Children 


456 

A noble army—men and boys, 

The matron and the maid,— 
Around the Saviour’s throne rejoice 
In robes of light arrayed. 

They climbed the steep ascent of 
Heaven, 

Through peril, toil, and pain! 

O God! to us may grace be given 
To follow in their train! 

Reginald Ileber. 


THE SPACIOUS FIRMAMENT ON 

HIGH. 

The spacious firmament on high, 
With all the blue ethereal sky, 

And spangled heavens, a shining 
frame, 

Their great Original proclaim. 

The unwearied sun from day to day 
Does his Creator’s power display, 

And publishes to every land, 

The work of an Almighty Hand. 

Soon as the evening shades prevail, 
The moon takes up the wondrous tale, 
And nightly to the listening earth 
Repeats the story of her birth; 

Whilst all the stars that round her 
burn, 

And all the planets in their turn, 
Confirm the tidings as they roll, 

And spread the truth from pole to 
pole. 

What though in solemn silence, all 
Move round this dark terrestrial ball ? 
What though nor real voice, nor sound 
Amidst their radiant orbs be found ? 
In Reason’s ear they all rejoice, 

And utter forth a glorious voice, 

For ever singing as they shine! 

“The hand that made us is divine!” 

Joseph Addison. 


ROCK OF AGES. 

Rock of Ages, cleft for me, 

Let me hide myself in Thee! 

Let the water and the blood, 

From Thy riven side which flowed, 
Be of sin the double cure— 

Cleanse me from its guilt and power. 

Not the labors of my hands 
Can fulfil Thy law’s demands; 

Could my zeal no respite know, 
Could my tears for ever flow, 

All for sin could not atone— 

Thou must save, and Thou alone. 

Nothing in my hand I bring— 
Simply to Thy Cross I cling; 

Naked come to Thee for dress— 
Helpless look to Thee for grace; 

Foul, I to the Fountain fly— 

Wash me, Saviour, or I die! 

While I draw this fleeting breath, 
When my eye-strings break in death, 
When I soar to worlds unknown, 

See Thee on Thy judgment-throne, 
Rock of Ages, cleft for me, 

Let me hide myself in Thee! 

Augustus Montague Toplady. 


A CHILD’S THOUGHT OF GOD. 

They say that God lives very high! 

But if you look above the pines 
You cannot see our God. And why? 

And if you dig down in the mines 
You never see Him in the gold, 
Though from Him all that’s glory 
shines. 

God is so good, He wears a fold 
Of heaven and earth across His 
face— 

Like secrets kept, for love untold. 


457 


Poems of Praise 


But still I feel that His embrace 
Slides down by thrills, through all 
things made, 

Through sight and sound of every 
place: 

As if my tender mother laid 

On my shut lids, her kisses’ 
pressure, 

Half-waking me at night and said, 
“Who kissed you through the dark, 
dear guesser?” 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning. 


A LITTLE LAMB WENT 
STRAYING. 

A little lamb Avent straying 
Among the hills one day, 
Leaving its faithful shepherd 
Because it loved to stray; 

And while the sun shone brightly, 
It knew no thought of fear, 

For flowers around were blooming, 
And balmy was the air. 

But night came over quickly, 

The hollow breezes blew— 

The sun soon ceased its shining, 
All dark and dismal grew; 

The little lamb stood bleating, 

As well indeed it might, 

So far from home and shepherd, 
And on so dark a night. 

But ah! the faithful shepherd 
Soon missed the little thing, 
And onward went to seek it, 

It home again to bring; 

He sought on hill, in valley, 

And called it by its name— 

He sought, nor ceased his seeking 
Until he found his lamb. 


Then to his gentle bosom 
The little lamb he pressed; 

And as he bore it homeward 
He fondly it caressed; 

The little lamb was happy 
To find itself secure; 

And won’t you love the Shepherd, 
Because his lamb he bore. 

And Avon’t you love the shepherd, 

So gentle and so kind, 

Who came from brightest glory 
Ilis little lambs to find? 

To make them, oh, so happy, 
Rejoicing in His love, 

Till every lamb be gathered 
Safe in His home above. 

Albert Midlane . 

THERE'S A FRIEND FOR LITTLE 
CHILDREN. 

There’s a Friend for little children, 
Above the bright blue sky; 

A Friend who neA^er changes, 

Whose love can never die. 

Unlike our friends by nature, 

Who change Avith changing years, 

This Friend is always Avorthy 
The precious name He bears. 

There’s a rest for little children, 
Above the bright blue sky, 

Who love the blessed Saviour, 

And “Abba, Father,” cry; 

A rest from every turmoil, 

From sin and danger free, 

Where every little pilgrim 
Shall rest eternally. 

There’s a home for little children 
Above the bright blue sky, 

Where Jesus reigns in glory, 

A home of peace and joy. 


Poems for Children 


458 

No home on earth is like it, 

Or can with it compare, 

For every one is happy, 

Nor could be happier there. 

There’s a crown for little children, 
Above the bright blue sky; 

And all who look for Jesus 
Shall wear it by-and-by. 

A crown of brightest glory, 

Which He will then bestow 

On all who’ve found His favor, 
And loved His name below. 

There’s a song for little children, 
Above the bright blue sky, 

A song that will not weary, 

Though sung continually; 

A song which even angels 
Can never, never sing, 

They know not Christ as Saviour, 
But worship Him as King. 

There’s a robe for little children, 
Above the bright blue sky, 

And a harp of sweetest music^ 

And a palm of victory. 

All, all above is treasured, 

And found in Christ alone; 

Oh, come, dear little children, 

That all may be your own. 

Albert Midlane. 


GENTLE JESUS, MEEK AND MILD. 

Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, 

Look upon a little child, 

Pity my simplicity, 

Teach me, Lord, to come to Thee. 

Fain would I to Thee be brought, 
Lamb of God, forbid it not; 

In the Kingdom of Thy grace 
Give a little child a place. 

Charles Wesley. 


EVERYWHERE, EVERYWHERE 
CHRISTMAS TO-NIGHT. 

Christmas in lands of the fir tree and 
pine, 

Christmas in lands of the palm tree 
and vine; 

Christmas where snow peaks stand 
solemn and white, 

Christmas where corn-fields lie sunny 
and bright; 

Everywhere, everywhere Christmas 
to-night! 

Christmas where children are hopeful 
and gay, 

Christmas where old men are patient 
and gray, 

Christmas where peace, like a dove in 
its flight, 

Broods o’er brave men in the thick of 
the fight; 

Everywhere, everywhere Christmas 
to-night! 

For the Christ-child who comes is the 
Master of all; 

No palace too great—no cottage too 
small. 

The angels who welcome Him sing 
from the height, 

“In the city of David a King in His 
might.” 

Everywhere, everywhere Christmas 
to-night! 

Then let every heart keep its Christ¬ 
mas within 

Christ’s pity for sorrow, Christ’s 
hatred of sin, 

Christ’s care for the weakest, Christ’s 
courage for right, 

Christ’s dread of the darkness, 
Christ’s love of the light, 

Everywhere, everywhere Christmas 
to-night! 


459 


Poems of Praise 


So the stars of the midnight which 
compass us round, 

Shall see a strange glory and hear a 
sweet sound, 

And cry, “Look! the earth is aflame 
with delight, 

0 sons of the morning rejoice at the 
sight.” 

Everywhere, everywhere Christmas 
to-night! 

Phillips Brooks. 

O LITTLE TOWN OF 
BETHLEHEM. 

O little town of Bethlehem, 

How still we see thee lie! 

Above thy deep and dreamless sleep 
The silent stars go by; 

Yet in thy dark streets shineth 
The everlasting Light; 

The hopes and fears of all the years 
Are met in thee to-night. 

For Christ is born of Mary, 

And, gathered all above, 

While mortals sleep, the angels keep 
Their watch of wondering love. 

O morning stars, together 
Proclaim the holy birth! 

And praises sing to God the King, 
And peace to men on earth. 

How silently, how silently, 

The wondrous gift is given! 

So God imparts to human hearts 
The blessings of His heaven. 

No ear may hear His coming, 

But in this world of sin, 

Where meek souls will receive Him 
still, 

The dear Christ enters in. 

0 holy Child of Bethlehem! 

Descend to us, we pray; 

Cast out our sin, and enter in, 

Be born in us to-day. 


We hear the Christmas angels 
The great glad tidings tell; 

Oh, come to us, abide with us, 

Our Lord Emmanuel! 

Phillips Brooks. 


" HOLY, HOLY, HOLY.” 

Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty! 

Early in the morning our songs 
shall rise to Thee; 

Holy, holy, holy! merciful and 
mighty! 

God in Three Persons, Blessed 
Trinity! 

Holy, holy, holy! all the saints adore 
Thee, 

Casting down their golden crowns 
around the glassy sea, 

Cherubim and seraphim falling down 
before Thee, 

Who wert, and art, and evermore 
shalt be! 


Holy, holy, holy! though the dark¬ 
ness hide Thee, 

Though the eye of sinful man Thy 
glory may not see, 

Only Thou art holy, there is none be¬ 
side Thee, 

Perfect in power, in love, and 
purity! 

Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty! 

All Thy works shall praise Thy 
name in earth and sky and sea; 

Holy, holy, holy! merciful and 
mighty! 

God in Three Persons, Blessed 
Trinity! 


Reginald Ileber. 


Poems for Children 


460 

LO, THE LILIES OF THE FIELD. 

Lo, the lilies of the held, 

How their leaves instruction yield! 
Hark to Nature’s lesson, given 
By the blessed birds of heaven; 

Every bush and tufted tree 
Warbles sweet philosophy: 

“Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow, 
God provideth for the morrow! 

“Say, with richer crimson glows 
The kingly mantle than the rose? 

Say, have kings more wholesome fare 
Than we poor citizens of air? 

Barns, nor hoarded grain have we, 
Yet we carol merrily. 

Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow, 
God provideth for the morrow! 

“One there lives, whose guardian eye 
Guides our humble destiny: 

One there lives, who, Lord of all, 
Keeps our feathers, lest they fall. 
Pass we blithely then the time, 
Fearless of the snare and lime, 

Free from doubt and faithless sorrow; 
God provideth for the morrow.” 

Reginald Heber. 


A CHRISTMAS HYMN. 

It was the calm and silent night! 
Seven hundred years and fifty-three 

Had Rome been growing up to might, 
And now was queen of land and sea. 

No sound was heard of clashing 
wars— 

Peace brooded o’er the hushed do¬ 
main : 

Apollo, Pallas, Jove and Mars 
Held undisturbed their ancient 
reign, 

In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago. 


’Twas in the calm and silent night! 
The senator of haughty Rome, 

Impatient, urged his chariot’s flight, 
From lordly revel rolling home; 

Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell 
His breast with thoughts of bound¬ 
less sway; 

What recked the Roman what befell 
A paltry province far away, 

In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago? 

Within that province far away 

Went plodding home a weary boor; 

A streak of light before him lay, 
Falling through a half-shut stable- 
door 

Across his path. He passed—for 
naught 

Told what was going on within; 

How keen the stars, his only thought— 
The air how calm, and cold, and 
thin, 

In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago! 

Oh, strange indifference! low and 
high 

Drowsed over common joys and 
cares; 

The earth was still—but knew not 
why, 

The world was listening, unawares. 

How calm a moment may precede 
One that shall thrill the world for¬ 
ever ! 

To that still moment, none would 
heed, 

Man’s doom was linked no more to 
sever— 

In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago! 

It is the calm and solemn night! 

A thousand bells ring out, and 

throw 


Poems of Praise 


Their joyous peals abroad, and smite 
The darkness—charmed and holy 
now! 

The night that erst no name had worn, 
To it a happy name is given; 

For in that stable lay, new-born, 

The peaceful prince of earth and 
heaven, 

In the solemn midnight, 
Centuries ago! 

Alfred Domett. 


THE BIRD, LET LOOSE IN 
EASTERN SKIES. 

The bird, let loose in eastern skies, 
When hastening fondly home, 

Ne’er stoops to earth her wing, nor 
flies 

Where idle warblers roam; 

But high she shoots through air and 
light, 

Above all low delay, 

Where nothing earthly bounds her 
flight, 

Nor shadow dims her way. 

So grant me, God! from every care 
And stain of passion free, 

Aloft, through virtue’s purer air, 

To hold my course to Thee! 

No sin to cloud,—no lure to stay 
My soul, as home she springs;— 
Thy sunshine on her joyful way, 

Thy freedom in her wings! 

Thomas Moore. 

THE LOST SHEEP. 

(“the ninety and nine”) 

There were ninety and nine that 
safely lay 

In the shelter of the fold; 

But one was out on the hills away, 
Far off from the gates of gold,— 


461 

Away on the mountains wild and 
bare, 

Away from the tender Shepherd’s 
care. 

“Lord, Thou hast here Thy ninety 
and nine: 

Are they not enough for thee?” 

But the Shepherd made answer: 
“ ’Tis of mine 

Has wandered away from me; 

And although the road be rough and 
steep 

I go to the desert to find my sheep. ’ ’ 

But none of the ransomed ever knew 

How deep were the waters crossed, 

Nor how dark was the night that the 
Lord passed through 

Ere Lie found His sheep that was 
lost. 

Out in the desert He heard its cry— 

Sick and helpless, and ready to die. 

“Lord, whence are those blood-drops 
all the way, 

That mark out the mountain- 
track ? ’ ’ 

“They were shed for one who had 
gone astray 

Ere the Shepherd could bring him 
back.” 

4 ‘ Lord, whence are Thy hands so rent 
and torn?” 

“They are pierced to-night by many 
a thorn. ’ ’ 

But all through the mountains, thun¬ 
der-riven, 

And up from the rocky steep, 

There rose a cry to the gate of heaven. 

‘ ‘ Rejoice! I have found my sheep! ’ ’ 

And the angels echoed around the 
throne, 

“Rejoice, for the Lord brings back 
His own!” 

Elizabeth Cecilia Clepliane. 


462 


Poems for 

CHARTLESS. 

I never saw a moor, 

I never saw the sea; 

Yet know I how the heather looks, 

And what a wave must be. 

I never spoke with God, 

Nor visited in heaven; 

Yet certain am I of the spot 
As if the chart were given. 

Emily Dickinson. 

THE VISION OF BELSHAZZAR. 

The King was on his throne, 

The Satraps throng’d the hall; 

A thousand bright lamps shone 
O’er that high festival. 

A thousand cups of gold, 

In Judah deem’d divine— 

Jehovah’s vessels hold 

The godless Heathen’s wine. 

I 11 that same hour and hall 
The fingers of a hand 

Came forth against the wall, 

And wrote as if on sand: 

The fingers of a man:— 

A solitary hand 

Along the letters ran, 

And traced them like a wand. 

The Monarch saw, and shook, 

And bade no more rejoice; 

All bloodless waxed his look, 

And tremulous his voice:— 

‘‘Let the men of lore appear, 

The wisest of the earth, 

And expound the words of fear, 
Which mar our royal mirth. ” 

Chaldea’s seers are good, 

But here they have no skill, 

And the unknown letters stood 
Untold and awful still. 


Children 

And Babel’s men of age 
Are wise and deep in lore, 

But now they were not sage, 
They saw—but knew no more. 

A captive in the land, 

A stranger and a youth, 

He heard the King’s command, 
He saw that writing’s truth; 
The lamps around were bright, 
The prophecy in view; 

He read it on that night,— 

The morrow proved it true! 

“Belshazzar’s grave is made, 

His kingdom pass’d away, 

He, in the balance weigh’d, 

Is light and worthless, clay; 
The shroud, his robe of state; 

His canopy, the stone; 

The Mede is at his gate! 

The Persian on his throne! ’ ’ 

George Gordon Byron. 


ST. AGNES’ EVE. 

Deep on the convent-roof the snows 
Are sparkling to the moon: 

My breath to heaven like vapor goes: 

May my soul follow soon! 

The shadows of the convent-towers 
Slant down the snowy sward, 

Still creeping with the creeping hours 
That lead me to my Lord: 

Make Thou my spirit pure and clear 
As are the frosty skies, 

Or this first snowdrop of the year 
That in my bosom lies. 

As these white robes are soiled and 
dark, 

To yonder shining ground; 

As this pale taper’s earthly spark, 
To yonder argent round ; 

So shows my soul before the Lamb, 
My spirit before Thee; 



463 


Poems of Praise 


So in mine earthly house I am, 

To that I hope to be. 

Break up the heavens, 0 Lord! and 
far, 

Through all yon starlight keen, 
Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, 
In raiment white and clean. 

He lifts me to the golden doors; 

The flashes come and go; 

All heaven bursts her starry floors, 
And strows her lights below, 

And deepens on and up! the gates 
Roll back, and far within 
For me the Heavenly Bridegroom 
waits, 

To make me pure of sin. 

The Sabbaths of Eternity, 

One Sabbath deep and wide— 

A light upon the shining sea— 

The Bridegroom with his bride! 

Alfred Tennyson. 


CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

As Joseph was a-walking, 

He heard an angel sing, 

“This night shall be the birthnight 
Of Christ our heavenly King. 

“His birth-bed shall be neither 
In housen nor in hall, 

Nor in the place of paradise, 

But in the oxen’s stall. 

“He neither shall be rocked 
In silver nor in gold, 

But in the wooden manger 
That lieth in the mould. 

“He neither shall be washen 

With white wine nor with red, 
But with the fair spring water 
That on you shall be shed. 


“He neither shall be cloth&d 
In purple nor in pall, 

But in the fair, white linen 
That usen babies all.” 

As Joseph was a-walking, 

Thus did the angel sing, 

And Mary’s son at midnight 
Was born to be our King. 

Then be you glad, good people, 
At this time of the year; 

And light you up your candles, 
For His star it shineth clear. 

Unknown. 


GOD REST YE, MERRY 
GENTLEMEN. 

God rest ye, merry gentlemen; let 
nothing you dismay, 

For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was 
born on Christmas-day. 

The dawn rose red o’er Bethlehem, 
the stars shone through the gray, 

When Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was 
born on Christmas-day. 

God rest ye, little children; let noth¬ 
ing you affright, 

For Jesus Christ, your Saviour, was 
born this happy night; 

Along the hills of Galilee the white 
flocks sleeping lay, 

When Christ, the child of Nazareth, 
was born on Christmas-day. 

God rest ye, all good Christians; upon 
this blessed morn 

The Lord of all good Christians was 
of a woman born: 

Now all your sorrows He doth heal, 
your sins He takes away; 

For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was 
born on Christmas-day. 

Dinah Maria Mulock. 


464 Poems for Children 


WHILE SHEPHERDS WATCHED 
THEIR FLOCKS BY NIGHT. 

While shepherds watched their flocks 
by night 

All seated on the ground, 

The angel of the Lord came down, 
And glory shone around. 

'‘Fear not,” said lie; for mighty 
dread 

Had seized their troubled mind: 
“Glad tidings of great joy I bring 
To you and all mankind. 

“To you in David’s town this day 
Is born of David’s line 
A Saviour, who is Christ the Lord, 
And this shall be the sign. 

“The heavenly Babe you there shall 
find 

To human view displayed, 

All meanly wrapped in swathing 
bands, 

And in a manger laid.” 

Thus spoke the seraph; and forthwith 
Appeared a shining throng 
Of angels, praising God, who thus 
Addressed their joyful song: 

‘ ‘ All glory be to God on high, 

And on the earth be peace; 
Good-will henceforth from heaven to 
men 

Begin and never cease.” 

Nahum Tate . 

BRIGHTEST AND BEST OF THE 
SONS OF THE MORNING. 

Brightest and best of the sons of the 
morning, 

Dawn on our darkness, and lend us 
thine aid! 

Star of the East, the horizon adorn¬ 
ing, 

Guide where our infant Redeemer 
is laid! 


Cold on His cradle the dewdrops are 
shining, 

Low lies His head with the beasts 
of the stall; 

Angels adore Him, in slumber reclin¬ 
ing, 

Maker, and Monarch, and Saviour 
of all! 

Offer Him gifts then, in costly devo¬ 
tion, 

Odors of Edom and incense divine; 
Gems of the mountain, and pearls of 
the ocean, 

Myrrh from the forest, and gold 
from the mine. 

Vainly we offer each ample oblation, 
Vainly with gold would His favor 
secure; 

Richer by far is the heart’s adoration, 
Dearer to God are the prayers of 
the poor. 

Reginald Heber. 

A HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS DAY.* 

Almighty Framer of the Skies! 

Oh let our pure devotion rise 
Like incense in Thy sight! 

Wrapt in impenetrable shade 
The texture of our souls were made, 
Till Thy command gave light. 

The Sun of Glory gleam’d the ray, 
Refined the darkness into day, 

And bid the vapors fly: 

Impell’d by His eternal Love 
He left His Palaces above 
To cheer our gloomy sky. 

How shall we celebrate the day 
When God appear’d in mortal clay, 
The mark of worldly scorn; 

When the archangel’s heavenly lays 
Attempted the Redeemer’s praise, 
And hail’d salvation’s morn! 

* Written at the age of eleven. 


4 6 5 


Poems of Praise 


A humble form of Godhead wore, 

The pains of poverty He bore, 

To gaudy pomp unknown: 

Though in a human walk He trode, 
Still was the Man Almighty God, 

In glory all His own. 

Despised, oppress’d, the Godhead 
bears 

The torments of this vale of tears, 

Nor bade His vengeance rise; 

He saw the creatures He had made 
Revile His power, His peace invade,— 
He saw with Mercy’s eyes. 

How shall we celebrate His Name, 
Who groan’d beneath a life of shame, 
In all afflictions tried! 

The soul is raptured to conceive, 

A truth which Being must believe— 
The God eternal died. 

My soul, exert thy powers—adore; 
Upon Devotion’s plumage soar 
To celebrate the day; 

The God from whom creation sprung 
Shall animate my grateful tongue; 
From Him I’ll catch the lay! 

Thomas Chatterton. 


AN ODE ON THE BIRTH OF OUR 
SAVIOUR. 

In numbers, and but these few, 

I sing Thy birth, 0 Jesu! 

Thou pretty baby, born here 
With superabundant scorn here: 

Who for Thy princely post here, 
Hadst for Thy place 
Of birth, a base 
Out-stable for Thy court here. 

Instead of neat enclosures 
Of interwoven osiers, 

Instead of fragrant posies 
Of daffodils and roses, 


Thy cradle, Kingly Stranger, 

As gospel tells, 

Was nothing else 
But here a homely manger. 

But we with silks (not cruells), 

With sundry precious jewels, 

And lily-work will dress Thee; 

And, as we dispossess Thee, 

Of clouts, we’ll make a chamber, 
Sweet babe, for Thee 
Of ivory, 

And plaster’d round with amber. 

Robert Herrick. 

ST. FRANCIS’ SERMON TO 
THE BIRDS. 

Around Assai’s convent gate 
The birds, God’s poor who cannot 
wait, 

From moor and mere and darksome 
wood 

Come flocking for their dole of food. 

“0 brother birds,” St. Francis said, 
“Ye come to me and ask for bread, 
But not with bread alone to-day 
Shall ye be fed and sent away. 

“Ye shall be fed, ye happy birds, 
With manna of celestial words; 

Not mine, though mine they seem to 
be, 

Not mine, though they be spoken 
through me. 

“Oh, doubly are ye bound to praise 
The great Creator in your lays; 

He giveth you your plumes of down, 
Your crimson hoods, your cloaks of 
brown. 

“He giveth you your wings to fly 
And breathe a purer air on high, 

And careth for you everywhere, 

Who for yourselves so little care! “ 


Poems for Children 


466 

With flutter of soft wings and songs 
Together rose the feathered throngs, 
And singing scattered far apart; 
Deep peace was in St. Francis’ heart. 

He knew not if the brotherhood 
His homily had understood; 

He only knew that to one ear 

The meaning of his words was clear. 

( Condensed.) 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 


ONCE IN ROYAL DAVID’S CITY. 

Once in royal David’s city 
Stood a lowly cattle shed, 

Where a Mother laid her baby 
In a manger for His bed; 

Mary was that Mother mild, 

Jesus Christ her little child. 


He came down to earth from heaven, 
Who is God and Lord of all, 

And His shelter was a stable, 

And His cradle was a stall, 

With the poor, and mean, and lowly 
Lived on earth our Saviour Holy. 

And through all His wondrous child¬ 
hood, 

He would honor and obey, 

Love and watch the lowly Maiden, 

In whose gentle arms He lay; 
Christian children all must be 
Mild, obedient, good as He. 

For He is our childhood’s pattern, 
Day by day like us He grew, 

He was little, weak, and helpless, 
Tears and smiles like us He knew; 
And He feeleth for our sadness, 

And He shareth in our gladness. 


And our eyes at last shall see Him, 
Through His own redeeming love, 
For that Child so dear and gentle 
Is our Lord in heaven above; 

And He leads His children on 
To the place where He has gone. 

Not in that poor lowly stable, 

With the oxen standing by, 

We shall see Him; but in heaven, 

Set at God’s right hand on high, 
When like stars His children crowned 
All in white shall wait around. 

Cecil Frances Alexander. 

GOOD KING WENCESLAS. 

Good King Wenceslas looked out 
On the Feast of Stephen, 

When the snow lay round about, 

Deep, and crisp, and even. 

Brightly shone the moon that night, 
Though the frost was cruel, 

When a poor man came in sight, 

Gath’ring winter fuel. 

‘ ‘ Hither, page, and stand by me, 

If thou know’st it, telling, 

Yonder peasant, who is he? 

Where and what his dwelling?” 

‘ 1 Sire, he lives a good league hence, 
Underneath the mountain; 

Right against the forest fence, 

By Saint Agnes’ fountain.” 

11 Bring me flesh, and bring me wine, 
Bring me pine-logs hither: 

Thou and I will see him dine, 

When we bear them thither. ’ ’ 

Page and monarch, forth they went, 
Forth they went together; 

Through the rude wind’s wild lament 
And the bitter weather. 

“Sire, the night is darker now, 

And the wind blows stronger; 
Fails my heart, I know not how, 

I can go no longer.” 


Poems of Praise 


“Mark my footsteps, good my page; 

Tread thou in them boldly: 

Thou shalt find the winter rage 
Freeze thy blood less coldly.” 

In his master’s steps he trod, 

Where the snow lay dinted ; 

Heat was in the very sod 
Which the saint had printed. 
Therefore, Christian men be sure, 
Wealth or rank possessing, 

Ye who now will bless the poor, 

Shall yourselves find blessing. 

John Neal. 

I SAW THREE SHIPS. 

I saw three ships come sailing in, 

On Christmas day, on Christmas 
day, 

I saw three ships come sailing in, 

On Christmas day, in the morning. 
# # * * * 

Pray whither sailed those ships all 
three 

On Christmas day, on Christmas 
day? 

Pray whither sailed those ships all 
three 

On Christmas day, in the morning. 

Oh, they sailed into Bethlehem 
On Christmas day, on Christmas 
day; 

Oh, they sailed into Bethlehem, 

On Christmas day, in the morning. 

And all the bells on earth shall ring 
On Christmas day, on Christmas 
day; 

And all the bells on earth shall ring 
On Christmas day, in the morning. 

And all the angels in heaven shall 
sing, 

On Christmas day, on Christmas 
day; 


And all the angels in heaven shall 
sing, 

On Christmas day, in the morning 

And all the souls on earth shall sing 
On Christmas day, on Christmas 
day; 

And all the souls on earth shall sing 
On Christmas day, in the morning. 

Unknown. 


ONWARD, CHRISTIAN 
SOLDIERS. 

Onward, Christian soldiers, 
Marching as to war, 

With the Cross of Jesus 
Going on before. 

Christ the Royal Master 
Leads against the foe; 

Forward into battle, 

See, His banners go! 

Onward, Christian soldiers, 
Marching as to war, 
With the Cross of Jesus 
Going on before. 

At the sign of triumph 
Satan’s host doth flee; 

On then, Christian soldiers, 

On to victory. 

Hell’s foundations quiver 
At the shouts of praise; 

Brothers, lift your voices, 

Loud your anthems raise. 
Onward, etc. 

Like a mighty army 

Moves the Church of God; 

Brothers, we are treading 
Where the Saints have trod; 

We are not divided, 

All one body we, 

One in hope and doctrine, 

One in charity. 

Onward, etc. 


468 


Poems for Children 


Crowns and thrones may perish, 
Kingdoms rise and wane, 

But the Church of Jesus 
Constant will remain; 

Gates of hell can never 

’Gainst that Church prevail; 

We have Christ’s own promise, 
And that cannot fail. 

Onward, etc. 

Onward, then, ye people, 

Join our happy throng, 

Blend with ours your voices 
In the triumph song; 

Glory, laud, and honor 
Unto Christ the King, 

This through countless ages 
Men and angels sing. 

Onward, Christian soldiers, 
Marching as to war, 

With the Cross of Jesus 
Going on before. 

Sabine Baring-Gould. 

FROM GREENLAND’S ICY 
MOUNTAINS. 

From Greenland’s icy mountains, 
From India’s coral strand; 

Where Afric’s sunny fountains 
Roll down their golden sand: 

From many an ancient river, 
From many a palmy plain, 

They call us to deliver 

Their land from error’s chain. 

What though the spicy breezes 
Blow soft o’er Ceylon’s isle; 

Though every prospect pleases, 
And only man is vile: 

In vain with lavish kindness 
The gifts of God are strown; 

The heathen, in his blindness, 
Bows down to wood and stone. 

Can we, whose souls are lighted 
With wisdom from on high— 


Can we, to men benighted, 

The lamp of life deny? 
Salvation! oh, salvation! 

The joyful sound proclaim; 
Till each remotest nation 
Has learnt Messiah’s name. 

Waft, waft, ye winds, His story, 
And you, ye waters, roll, 

Till, like a sea of glory, 

It spreads from pole to pole; 
Till o ’er our ransomed nature, 
The Lamb for sinners slain, 
Redeemer, King, Creator, 

In bliss returns to reign. 

Reginald Heber. 


A THANKSGIVING TO GOD FOR 
HIS HOUSE. 

Lord, Thou hast given me a cell, 
Wherein to dwell; 

A little house, whose humble roof 
Is weather-proof; 

Under the spars of which I lie 
Both soft and dry; 

Where thou, my chamber for to ward, 
Hast set a guard 

Of harmless thoughts, to watch ana 
keep 

Me, while I sleep. 

Low is my porch, as is my fate: 

Both void of state; 

And yet the threshold of my door 
Is worn by th’ poor, 

Who thither come, and freely get 
Good words, or meat. 

Like as my parlor, so my hall 
And kitchen’s small; 

A little buttery, and therein 
A little bin, 

Which keeps my little loaf of bread 
Unchipt, unflead; 

Some little sticks of thorn or briar 
Make me a fire, 


4 f >9 


Poems of Praise 


Close by whose living coal I sit, 

And glow like it. 

Lord, I confess too, when I dine, 

The pulse is Thine, 

And all those other bits that be 
There placed by Thee; 

The worts, the purslain, and the mess 
Of water-cress, 

Which. of Thy kindness Thou hast 
sent; 

And my content 

Makes those, and my beloved beet, 

To be more sweet. 

’Tis Thou that crown’st my glittering 
hearth 

With guiltless mirth, 

And giv’st me wassail-bowls to drink, 
Spiced to the brink. 

Lord, his Thy plenty-dropping hand 
That soils my land, 

And giv’st me, for my bushel sown, 
Twice ten for one; 

Thou mak’st my teeming hen to lay 
Her egg each day; 

Besides my faithful ewes to bear 
Me twins each year; 

The while the conduits of my kine 
Run cream, for wine— 

All these, and better, Thou dost send 
Me,—to this end, 

That I should render, for my part, 

A thankful heart. 

Robert Herrick. 


SAW YE NEVER IN THE 
MEADOWS. 

Saw ye never in the meadows, 

Where your little feet did pass, 
Down below the sweet white daisies, 
Growing in the long green grass? 

They are like to little children, 
Children bred in lowly cot, 

Who are modest, meek, and quiet, 
And contented with their lot. 


Saw you never lilac blossoms, 

Or acacia white and red, 

Waving brightly in the sunshine, 

On the tall trees overhead ? 

They are like to other children, 
Children of the high and great, 

Who are gracious, good, and gentle, ’ 
Serving God in their estate. 

$ # # % & 

Day by day the little daisy 
Looks up with its yellow eye, 

Never murmurs, never wishes 
It were hanging up on high. 

And God loveth all His children, 

Rich and poor, and high and low, 
And they all shall meet in Heaven, 
Who have served Him here below. 

Cecil Frances Alexander. 

THE BURIAL OF MOSES. 

“And he buried him in a valley in the 
land of Moab, over against Beth-peor; 
but no man knoweth of his sepulcher 
unto this day.”— DeuT. xxxiv, 6. 

By Nebo’s lonely mountain, 

On this side Jordan’s wave, 

In a vale in the land of Moab, 

There lies a lonely grave; 

But no man built that sepulcher, 

And no man saw it e’er; 

For the angels of God upturned thq 
sod 

And laid the dead man there. 

That was the grandest funeral 
That ever passed on earth; 

Yet no man heard the trampling, 

Or saw the train go forth: 

Noiselessly as the daylight 
Comes when the night is done, 

And the crimson streak on ocean’s 
cheek 

Grows into the great sun; 


Poems for Children 


47 ° 

Noiselessly as the spring-time 
Her crown of verdure weaves, 

And all the trees on all the hills 
Unfold their thousand leaves: 

So without sound of music 
Or voice of them that wept, 

Silently down from the mountain’s 
crown 

The great procession swept. 

Perchance the bald old eagle 
On gray Beth-peor’s height 
Out of his rocky eyrie 
Looked on the wondrous sight; 
Perchance the lion stalking 
Still shuns that hallowed spot; 

For beast and bird have seen and 
heard 

That which man knoweth not. 

But, when the warrior dieth, 

His comrades of the war, 

With arms reversed and muffled 
drums, 

Follow the funeral car: 

They show the banners taken; 

They tell his battles won; 

And after him lead his masterless 
steed, 

While peals the minute-gun. 

Amid the noblest of the land 
Men lay the sage to rest, 

And give the bard an honored place 
With costly marble dressed, 

In the great minster transept 
Where lights like glories fall, 

And the sweet choir sings, and the 
organ rings 

Along the emblazoned wall. 

This was the bravest warrior 
. That ever buckled sword; 

This the most gifted poet 
That ever breathed a word; 


And never earth’s philosopher 
Traced with his golden pen 
On the deathless page truths half so 
sage 

As he wrote down for men. 

And had he not high honor?— 

The hillside for a pall! 

To lie in state, while angels w^it, 
With stars for tapers tall! 

And the dark rock-pines, like tossing 
plumes, 

Over his bier to wave, 

And God’s own hand, in that lonely 
land, 

To lay him in the grave!— 

In that strange grave without a name, 
Whence his uncoffined clay 
Shall break again — 0 wondrous 
thought!— 

Before the judgment day, 

And stand, with glory wrapped 
around, 

On the hills he never trod 
And speak of the strife that won our 
life 

With the incarnate Son of God. 

O lonely tomb in Moab’s land! 

O dark Beth-peor’s hill! 

Speak to these curious hearts of ours, 
And teach them to be still: 

God hath His mysteries of grace, 
Ways that we cannot tell; 

He hides them deep, like the secret 
sleep 

Of him He loved so well. 

Cecil Frances Alexander . 


WHAT CHRIST SAID. 

I said, “Let me walk in the fields;” 

He said, “Nay, walk in the town;” 
I said, “There are no flowers there;” 
He said, “No flowers, but a crown.” 


Poems of Praise 471 


I said, “But the sky is black, 

There is nothing but noise and 
din; ’ ’ 

But He wept as He sent me back— 
“There is more,” He said, “there 
is sin.” 

I said, “But the air is thick, 

And fogs are veiling the sun; ’’ 

He answered, “Yet hearts are sick, 
And souls in the dark undone.” 

I said, “I shall miss the light, 

And friends will miss me, they 
say;” 

He answered me, “Choose to-night 
If I am to miss you or they.” 

I pleaded for time to be given; 

He said, “Is it hard to decide? 

It will not seem hard in heaven 
To have followed the steps of your 
Guide. ’ ’ 

I cast one look at the field, 

Then set my face to the town; 

He said, “My child, do you yield? 
"Will you leave the flowers for the 
crown ? ’ ’ 

Then into His hand went mine. 

And into my heart came He. 

And I walk in a light divine 
The path I had feared to see. 

George Macdonald . 

EVENING SONG. 

Little birds sleep sweetly 
In their soft round nests, 
Crouching in the cover 
Of their mothers’ breasts. 

Little lambs lie quiet, 

All the summer night 
With their old ewe mothers, 
Warm, and soft, and white. 


But more sweet and quiet 
Lie our little heads, 

With our own dear mothers 
Sitting by our beds; 

And their soft sweet voices 
Sing our hush-a-bies, 

While the room grows darker 
As we shut our eyes. 

And we play at evening 
Round our father’s knees; 

Birds are not so merry, 
Singing on the trees; 

Lambs are not so happy, 

’Mid the meadow flowers; 

They have play and pleasure, 
But not love like ours. 

But the heart that’s loving, 
Works of love will do; 

Those we dearly cherish, 

We must honor too. 

To our father’s teaching 
Listen day by day, 

And our mother’s bidding 
Cheerfully obey. 

For when in His childhood 
Our dear Lord was here, 

He too was obedient 
To His Mother dear. 

And His little children 
Must be good as He, 

Gentle and submissive, 

As He used to be. 

Cecil Frances Alexander . 

NOW THE DAY IS OVER. 

Now the day is over, 

Night is drawing nigh, 

Shadows of the evening 
Steal across the sky. 


47 2 


Poems for Children 


Now the darkness gathers, 

Stars begin to peep; 

Birds, and beasts, and flowers 
Soon will be asleep. 

Jesu, give the weary 
Calm and sweet repose; 

With Thy tend’rest blessing 
May mine eyelids close. 

Grant to little children 
Visions bright of Thee; 

Guard the sailors tossing 
On the deep blue sea. 

Comfort every sufferer 
Watching late in pain; 

Those who plan some evil, 

From their sin restrain. 

Through the long night watches 
May Thine Angels spread 

Their white wings above me, 
Watching round my bed. 

When the morning wakens, 

Then may I arise, 

Pure and fresh and sinless 
In Thy Holy Eyes. 

Glory to the Father, 

Glory to the Son, 

And to Thee, Blest Spirit 
While all ages run. 

Sabine Baring-Gould. 

TO HIS SAVIOUR, A CHILD; A 
PRESENT BY A CHILD. 

Go, pretty child, and bear this flower 
Unto thy little Saviour; 

And tell him, by that bud now blown, 
He is the Rose of Sharon known. 
When thou hast said so, stick it there 
Upon his bib or stomacher; 

And tell him, for good hansel too, 
That thou hast brought a whistle new, 


Made of a clean strait oaten reed, 

To charm his cries at time of need. 
Tell him, for coral thou hast none, 
But if thou hadst, he should have one; 
But poor thou art, and known to be 
Even as moneyless as he. 

Lastly, if thou canst win a kiss 
From those mellifluous lips of his; 
Then never take a second on, 

To spoil the first impression. 

Robert Herrick. 


A CHILD'S PRAYER. 

God make my life a little light, 
Within the world to glow— 

A tiny flame that burneth bright, 
Wherever I may go. 

God make my life a little flower, 
That bringeth joy to all, 

Content to bloom in native bower, 
Although its place be small. 

God make my life a little song, 
That comforteth the sad, 

That helpeth others to be strong, 
And makes the singer glad. 

M. BetJiam Edwards . 


A CHILD’S EVENING 
PRAYER. 

Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me, 
Bless Thy little lamb to-night; 
Through the darkness be Thou near 
me, 

Watch my sleep till morning light. 

All this day Thy hand has led me, 
And I thank Thee for Thy care; 
Thou hast cloth’d and warm’d and 
fed me; 

Listen to my evening prayer. 


Poems of Praise 


47 3 


Let my sins be all forgiven! 

Bless the friends I love so well! 
Take me, when I die, to Heaven; 
Happy, there with Thee to dwell. 

Mary Lundie Duncan. 


CHILD’S EVENING PRAYER. 

Ere on my bed my limbs I lay, 

God grant me grace my prayers to 
say! 

0 God, preserve my mother dear 
In health and strength for many a 
year. 

And 0 preserve my father too, 

And may I pay him reverence due; 
And may I my best thoughts employ 
To be my parents’ hope and joy! 

And 0 preserve my brothers both 
From evil doings and from sloth, 

And may we always love each other, 
Our friends, our father, and our 
mother! 

And still, 0 Lord, to me impart 
An innocent and grateful heart, 

That after my last sleep I may 
Awake to Thy eternal day. Amen. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 


EVENING HYMN. 

On the dark hill’s western side 
The last purple gleam has died, 
Twilight to one solemn hue 
Changes all, both green and blue. 

In the fold and in the nest, 

Birds and lambs are gone to rest, 
Labor’s weary task is o’er, 

Closely shut the cottage door. 

Saviour, ere in sweet repose 
I my weary eyelids close, 

While my mother through the gloom 
Singeth from the outer room; 

While across the curtain white, 

With a dim uncertain light, 

On the floor the faint stars shine, 

Let my latest thought be Thine. 

* * # * , # * 

If my slumbers broken be, 

Waking let me think of Thee; 
Darkness cannot make me fear, 

If I feel that Thou art near. 

Happy now I turn to sleep; 

Thou wilt watch around me keep, 

Him no danger e’er can harm, 

Who lies cradled in Thine arm. 

Cecil Frances Alexander. 


XV 


Miscellaneous 


THE PIPER. 

Piping down the valleys wild, 
Piping songs of pleasant glee, 

On a cloud I saw a child, 

And he laughing said to me: 

“Pipe a song about a lamb.” 

So I piped with merry cheer. 
“Piper, pipe that song again”; 

So I piped; he wept to hear. 

“Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe, 
Sing thy songs of happy cheer”: 
So I sang the same again, 

While he wept with joy to hear. 

“Piper, sit thee down and write 
In a book that all may read—” 
So he vanished from my sight; 

And I plucked a hollow reed, 

And I made a rural pen, 

And I stain’d the water clear, 
And I wrote my happy songs, 
Every child may joy to hear. 

William Blake. 

I REMEMBER. 

I remember, I remember, 

The house where I was born, 

The little window, where the sun 
Came peeping in at morn: 

He never came a wink too soon, 

Nor brought too long a day, 

But now I often wish the night 
Had borne my breath away! 


I remember, I remember, 

The roses, red and white, 

The violets, and the lily-cups, 

Those flowers made of light! 

The lilacs, where the robin built, 

And where my brother set 
The laburnum on his birthday: 

The tree is living yet! 

I remember, I remember, 

Where I was used to swing, 

And thought the air must rush as 
fresh, 

To swallows on the wing. 

My spirit flew in feathers then, 

That is so heavy now; 

And summer pools could hardly cool 
The fever on my brow! 

I remember, I remember, 

The fir-trees, dark and high; 

I used to think their slender tops 
Were close against the sky: 

It was a childish ignorance: 

But now, ’tis little joy • 

To know I’m further off from heaven 
Than when I was a boy. 

Thomas Hood. 

THE BOY IN THE WILDERNESS. 

Encinctured with a twine of leaves, 
That leafy twine his only dress— 

A lovely boy was plucking fruits, 

By moonlight, in a wilderness. 


Miscellaneous 


The moon was bright, the air was free, 
And fruits and flowers together 
grew 

On many a shrub and many a tree; 

And all put on a gentle hue, 
Hanging in the shadowy air 
Like a picture rich and rare! 

It was a climate where, they say, 

The night is more beloved than day. 
But who that beauteous boy be¬ 
guiled, 

That beauteous boy, to linger here, 
Alone by night, a little child, 

In place so silent and so wild ?— 
Has he no friend, no loving mother 
near ? 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 

MY LOST YOUTH. 

Often I think of the beautiful town 
That is seated by the sea • 

Often in thought go up and down 
The pleasant streets of that dear old 
town, 

And my youth comes back to me. 

And a verse of Lapland song 
Is haunting my memory still: 

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, 
long thoughts.” 

I can see the shadowy lines of its trees, 
And catch in sudden gleams, 

The sheen of the far-surrounding seas, 
And islands that were the Hesperides 
Of all my boyish dreams. 

And the burden of that old song, 
It murmurs and whispers still: 
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, 
long thoughts.” 

I remember the black wharves and the 
slips, 

And the sea-tides tossing free; 

And Spanish sailors with bearded 
lips, 


475 

And the beauty and mystery of the 
ships, 

And the magic of the sea. 

And the voice of that wayward 
song 

Is singing and saying still: 

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, 
long thoughts. ’ ’ 

I remember the bulwarks by the shore, 
And the fort upon the hill: 

The sunrise gun, with its hollow roar, 
The drum-beat repeated o’er and o’er, 
And the bugle wild and shrill. 

And the music of that old song 

Throbs in my memory still: 

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, 
long thoughts.” 

I remember the sea-fight far away, 
How it thundered o’er the tide! 
And the dead captains, as they lay 
In their graves, o’erlooking the tran¬ 
quil bay, 

Where they in battle died. 

And the sound of that mournful 
song 

Goes through me with a thrill: 

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, 
long thoughts.” 

I can see the breezy dome of groves, 
The shadows of Deering’s Woods; 
And the friendships old and the early 
loves 

Come back with a Sabbath sound as 
of doves 

In quiet neighborhoods. 

And the verse of that sweet old 
song 

It flutters and murmurs still: 

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, 
long thoughts.” 


Poems for Children 


476 

I remember the gleams and glooms 
that dart 

Across the schoolboy’s brain: 

The song and the silence in the heart, 
That in part are prophecies, and in 
part 

Are longings wild and vain. 

And the voice of that fitful song 
Sings on, and is never still: 

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, 
long thoughts.” 

There are things of which I may not 
speak; 

There are dreams that cannot die; 
There are thoughts that make the 
strong heart weak, 

And bring a pallor into the cheek, 

And a mist before the eye. 

And the words of that fatal song 
Come over me like a chill: 

“A boy’s will is the wind’s will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, 
long thoughts.” 

Strange to me now are the forms I 
meet 

When I visit the dear old town: 

But the native air is pure and sweet, 
And the trees that o’ershadow each 
well-known street, 

As they balance up and down, 

Are singing the beautiful song, 
Are sighing and whispering still: 
‘ ‘ A boy’s will is the wind’s will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, 
long thoughts.” 

And Deering’s Woods are fresh and 
fair, 

And with joy that is almost pain 
My heart goes back to wander there, 
And among the dreams of the days 
that were, 

I find my lost youth again. 

And the strange and beautiful 
song, 


The groves are repeating it still: 
“A boy’s will is the wind’s will, 
And the thoughts of youth are long, 
long thoughts.” 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow . 

THE ARROW AND THE SONG. 

I shot an arrow into the air, 

It fell to earth, I knew not where; 

For, so swiftly it flew, the sight 
Could not follow it in its flight. 

I breathed a song into the air, 

It fell to earth, I knew not where; 

For who has sight so keen and strong, 
That it can follow the flight of song? 

Long, long afterward, in an oak 
I found the arrow, still unbroke; 

And the song, from beginning to end, 
I found again in the heart of a friend. 

Henry Wadsworth Longfelloiv . 

LAUGHING SONG. 

When the green woods laugh with 
the voice of joy, 

And the dimpling stream runs laugh¬ 
ing by, 

When the air does laugh with our 
merry wit, 

And the green hill laughs with the 
noise of it; 

When the meadows laugh with lively 
green, 

And the grasshopper laughs in the 
merry scene, 

When Mary and Susan and Emily 
With their sweet round mouths sing 
Ha, ha, he! 

When the painted birds laugh in the 
shade, 

When our table with cherries and 
nuts is spread, 


Miscellaneous 


Come live and be happy and join with 
me 

To sing the sweet chorus of Ha, ha, 
he! 

William Blake. 

DAFFY-DOWN-DILLY. 

Daffy-down-dilly 
Came up in the cold, 

Through the brown mould, 
Although the March breezes 
Blew keen on her face, 

Although the white snow 
Lay on many a place. 

Daffy-down-dilly 

Had heard under ground, 

The sweet rushing sound 
Of the streams, as they broke 
From their Avhite winter chains 
Of the whistling spring winds, 

And the pattering rains. 

“Now then,” thought Daffy, 

Deep down in her heart, 

“It’s time I should start. ” 

So she pushed her soft leaves 
Through the hard frozen ground, 
Quite up to the surface, 

And then she looked round. 

There was snow all about her, 

Gray clouds overhead; 

The trees all looked dead: 

Then how do you think 
Poor Daffy-down felt, 

When the sun would not shine, 

And the ice would not melt ? 

“Cold weather!” thought Daffy, 

Still working away; 

“The earth’s hard to-day! 
There’s but a half inch 
Of my leaves to be seen, 

And two-thirds of that 
Is more yellow than green. 


477 

“I can’t do much yet, 

But I ’ll do what I can: 

It’s well I began! 

For, unless I can manage 
To lift up my head, 

The people will think 

That the Spring herself’s dead.” 

So, little by little, 

She brought her leaves out, 

All clustered about; 

And then her bright flowers 
Began to unfold, 

Till Daffy stood robed 
In her spring green and gold. 

0 Daffy-down-dilly, 

So brave and so true! 

I wish all were like you!— 

So ready for duty 

In all sorts of weather, 

And loyal to courage 
And duty together. 

Anna R. Warner. 

SIR LAUNFAL AND THE LEPER. 

From “ The Vision of Sir Launfal.” 

As Sir Launfal made morn through 
the darksome gate, 

He was aware of a leper, crouched 
by the same, 

Who begged with his hand and 
moaned as he sate; 

And a loathing over Sir Launfal 
came; 

The sunshine went out of his soul 
with a thrill, 

The flesh ’neath his armor did 
shrink and crawl, 

And midway its leap his heart stood 
still 

Like a frozen waterfall; 

For this man, so foul and bent of 
stature, 

Rasped harshly against his dainty 

nature, 

/ 


Poems for Children 


478 

And seemed the one blot on the sum¬ 
mer morn,— 

So he tossed him a piece of gold in 
scorn. 

The leper raised not the gold from the 
dust: 

“Better to me the poor man’s crust, 

Better the blessing of the poor, 

Though I turn me empty from his 
door; 

That is no true alms which the hand 
can hold: 

He gives nothing but worthless gold 
Who gives from a sense of duty; 

But he who gives a slender mite, 

And gives to that which is out of 
sight, 

That thread of the all-sustaining 
Beauty 

Which runs through all and doth all 
unite,— 

The hand cannot clasp the whole of 
his alms, 

The heart outstretches its eager palms, 

For a god goes with it and makes it 
store 

To the soul that was starving in dark¬ 
ness before .’ 1 

James Russell Lowell. 


NURSE’S SONG. 

When the voices of children are heard 
on the green 

And laughing is heard on the hill, 

My heart is at rest within my breast, 

And everything else is still. 

Then come home, my children, the sun 
is gone down, 

And the dews of night arise; 

Come, come, leave off play, and let us 
away 

Till the morning appears in the 
skies. 


No, no, let us play, for it is yet day, 
And we cannot go to sleep; 

Besides, in the sky the little birds fly, 
And the hills are all cover’d with 
sheep. 

Well, well, go and play till the light 
fades away, 

And then go home to bed. 

The little ones leap’d and shouted and 
laugh’d, 

And all the hills echoed. 

William Blake. 


SEVEN TIMES TWO. 

You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out 
your changes, 

How many soever they be, 

And let the brown meadow-lark’s note 
as he ranges 

Come over, come over to me! 

Yet birds’ clearest carol by fall or by 
swelling 

No magical sense conveys; 

And bells have forgotten their old art 
of telling 

The fortune of future days. 

“Turn again, turn again!” once they 
rang cheerily, 

While a boy listened alone; 

Made his heart yearn again, musing 
so wearily 

All by himself on a stone. 

Poor bells! I forgive you; your good 
days are over, 

And mine they are yet to be; 

No listening, no longing, shall aught, 
aught discover; 

You leave the story to me. 


Miscellaneous 


The foxglove shoots out of the green 
matted heather, 

And hangeth her hoods of snow; 
She was idle, and slept till the sun¬ 
shiny weather: 

Oh, children take long to grow! 

I wish and I wish that the spring 
would go faster, 

Nor long summer bide so late; 

And I could grow on like the foxglove 
and aster, 

For some things are ill to wait. 

I wait for the day when dear hearts 
shall discover, 

While dear hands are laid on my 
head, 

‘ ‘ The child is a woman—the book may 
close over, 

For all the lessons are said.” 

I wait for my story: the birds cannot 
sing it, 

Not one, as he sits on the tree; 

The bells cannot ring it, but long 
years, oh bring it! 

Such as I wish it to be. 

Jean Ingelow. 

THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE. 

Come live with me, and be my Love, 
And we will all the pleasures prove, 
That hills and valleys, dale and field, 
And all the craggy mountains yield. 

There will we sit upon the rocks, 

And see the shepherds feed their 
flocks 

By shallow rivers, to whose falls 
Melodious birds sing madrigals. 

There will I make thee beds of roses, 
And a thousand fragrant posies, 

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle, 
Embroider’d all with leaves of 
myrtle; 


479 

A gown made of the finest wool, 
Which from our pretty lambs we pull; 
Fair-lined slippers for the cold, 

With buckles of the purest gold; 

A belt of straw and ivy-buds, 

With coral clasps and amber studs: 
And if these pleasures may thee move, 
Come live with me, and be my Love. 

Thy silver dishes for thy meat, 

As precious as the gods do eat, 

Shall, on an ivory table, be 
Prepared each day for thee and me. 

The shepherd swains shall dance and 
sing 

For thy delight each May-morning: 

If these delights thy mind may move, 
Then live with me, and be my Love. 

Christopher Marlowe. 


MEG MERRILIES. 

Old Meg she was a gipsy, 

And lived upon the moors: 

Her bed it was the brown heath turf, 
And her house was out of doors. 

Her apples were swart blackberries, 
Her currants, pods o ’ broom; 

Her wine was dew o’ the wild white 
rose, 

Her book a churchyard tomb. 

Her Brothers were the craggy hills, 
Her Sisters larchen trees; 

Alone with her great family, 

She lived as she did please. 

No breakfast had she many a morn, 
No dinner many a noon, 

And, ’stead of supper, she would stare 
Full hard against the Moon. 


Poems for Children 


% 


480 

But every morn, of woodbine fresh, 
She made her garlanding, 

And every night the dark glen Yew, 
She wove, and she would sing. 

And with her fingers, old and brown, 
She plaited Mats of Rushes, 

And gave them to the Cottagers 
She met among the Bushes. 

Old Meg was brave as Margaret 
Queen, 

And tall as Amazon; 

A 11 old red blanket cloak she wore, 

A chip hat had she on. 

God rest her aged bones somewhere: 
She died full long a gone. 

John Keats. 


THE SONGS OF AUTOLYCUS. 

I. 

When daffodils begin to peer,— 

With heigh! the doxy over the 
dale,— 

Why then comes in the sweet 0 ’ the 
year; 

For the red blood reigns in the 
winter’s pale. 

The white sheet bleaching on the 
hedge,— 

With heigh! the sweet birds, 0, how 
they sing!— 

Doth set my pugging # tooth on edge 
For a quart of ale is a dish for a 
king. 

The lark that tirra-lirra chants,— 
With heigh! with hey! the thrush 
and the jay, 

Are summer songs for me and my 
aunts, 

While we lie tumbling in the hay. 

* Pugging—thieving. 


II. 

Jog on, jog on, the foot-path way, 
And merrily hent * the stile-a: 

A merry heart goes all the day, 

Your sad tires in a mile-a. 

III. 

Will you buy any tape, 

Or lace for your cape, 

My dainty duck, my dear-a? 

Any silk, any thread, 

And toys for your head, 

Of the newest and finest wear-a? 
Come to the pedlar, 

Money’s a meddler, 

That doth utter all men’s wear-a. 

IV. 

Lawn, as white as driven snow; 
Cyprus, black as e’er was crow; 
Gloves, as sweet as damask roses; 
Masks for faces, and for noses; 
Bugle-bracelet, necklace-amber; 
Perfume for a lady’s chamber; 
Golden quoifs, and stomachers, 

For my lads to give their dears; 

Pins, and poking sticks of steel; 

What maids lack from head to heel; 
Come, buy of me, come; come buy, 
come buy; 

Buy, lads, or else your lasses cry: 
Come, buy. 

William Shakespeare. 


THE RAIN IT RAINETH EVERY 

DAY. 

When that I was and a little tiny 

b°y, 

With heigh-ho! the wind and the 
rain , 

A foolish thing was but a toy, 

For the rain it raineth every day 

* Hcnt—seize hold of. 


Miscellaneous 


But when I came to man’s estate, 
With heigh-ho! the wind and the 
rain, 

’Gainst knaves and thieves men shut 
their gate, 

For the rain it raineth every day. 

But when I came, alas! to wive, 

With heigh-ho! the ivind and the 
rain, 

By swaggering could I never thrive, 
For the rain it raineth every day. 

A great while ago the world begun, 
With heigh-ho! the wind and, the 
rain; 

But that’s all one, our play is done, 
And we’ll strive to please you every 
day. 

William Shakespeare. 

COME UNTO THESE YELLOW 
SANDS. 

Come unto these yellow sands, 

And then take hands: 

Court’sied when you have, and kiss’d 
(The wild waves, whist), 

Foot it featly here and there; 

And sweet sprites, the burden 
bear. 

Hark, hark! 

Burden, Bowgh, wowgh. 

The watch dogs bark: 

Burden, Bowgh, wowgh. 

Hark, hark! I hear 
The strain of strutting chanticlere 
Cry, Cock-a-doodle-doo. 

William Shakespeare. 

THE FORSAKEN MERMAN. 

Come, dear children, let us away; 
Down and away below! 

Now my brothers call from the bay, 
Now the great winds shoreward blow, 
Now the salt tides seaward flow; 


481 

Now the wild white horses play, 
Champ and chafe and toss in the 
spray. 

Children dear, let us away! 

This way, this way! 

Call her once before you go— 

Call once yet! 

In a voice that she will know: 

‘ ‘ Margaret! Margaret! ’ ’ 

Children’s voices should be dear 
(Call once more) to a mother’s ear; 
Children’s voices, wild with pain— 
Surely she will come again! 

Call her once and come away; 

This way, this way! 

“Mother dear, we cannot stay! 

The wild white horses foam and fret.” 
Margaret! Margaret! 

Come, dear children, come away down; 
Call no more! 

One last look at the white-wall’d town, 
And the little grey church on the 
windy shore; 

Then come down! 

She will not come though you call all 
day; 

Come away, come away! 

Children dear, was it yesterday 
We heard the sweet bells over the 
bay? » 

In the caverns where we lay, 

Through the surf and through the 
swell, 

The far-off sound of a silver bell’? 
Sand-strewn caverns, cool and deep, 
Where the winds are all asleep; 

Where the spent lights quiver and 
gleam, 

Where the salt weed sways in the 
stream, 

Where the sea-beasts, ranged all 
round, 

Feed in the ooze of their pasture- 
ground ; 


Poems for Children 


482 

Where the sea-snakes coil and twine, 

Dry their mail and bask in the brine; 

Where great whales come sailing by, 

Sail and sail, with unshut eye, 

Round the world for ever and aye? 

When did music come this way? 

Children dear, was it yesterday? 

Children dear, was it yesterday 

(Call yet once) that she went away? 

Once she sate with you and me, 

On a red gold throne in the heart of 

the sea, 

And the youngest sate on her knee. 

She comb’d its bright hair, and she 
tended it well, 

When down swung the sound of a far- 
off bell. 

She sigh’d, she look’d up through the 
clear green sea; 

She said, “I must go, for my kinsfolk 
pray 

In the little grey church on the shore 
to-day. 

'Twill be Easter-time in the world— 
ah me! 

And I lose my poor soul, Merman! 
here with thee." 

I said: “Go up, dear heart, through 
the waves; 

Say thy prayer, and come back to the 
kind sea-caves!" 

She smiled, she went up through the 
surf in the bay, 

Children dear, was it yesterday ? 

Children dear, were we long alone? 

The sea grows stormy, the little ones 
moan; 

Long prayers," I said, “in the world 
they say; 

Come!" I said; and we rose through 
the surf in the bay. 

We went up the beach, by the sandy 
down 

Where the sea-stocks bloom, to the 
white-wall’d town; 


Through the narrow paved streets, 
where all was still, 

To the little grey church on the windy 

hill. 

From the church came a murmur of 
folk at their prayers, 

But we stood without in the cold 
blowing airs. 

We climb’d on the graves, on the 
stones worn with rains, 

And we gazed up the aisle through 
the small leaded panes. 

She sate by the pillar; we saw her 
clear: 

“Margaret hist! come quick, we are 
here! 

“Dear heart," I said, “we are long 
alone; 

The sea grows stormy, the little ones 
moan . 9 9 

But, ah, she gave me never a look, 

For her eyes were sealed to the holy 
book! 

Loud prays the priest; shut stands 
the door. 

Come away, children, call no more! 
Come away, come down, call no more! 
Down, down, down! 

Down to the depths of the sea! 

She sits at her wheel in the humming 
town, 

Singing most joyfully. 

Hark what she sings: “0 joy, 0 joy, 
For the humming street, and the child 
with its toy! 

For the priest, and the bell, and the 
holy well; 

For the wheel where I spun, 

And the blessed light of the sun!" 
And so she sings her fill, 

Singing most joyfully, 

Till the spindle drops from her hand, 
And the whizzing wheel stands still. 
She steals to the window, and looks at 
the sand, 

And over the sand at the sea; 


Miscellaneous 


483 


And her eyes are set in a stare; 

And anon there breaks a sigh, 

And anon there drops a tear, 

From a sorrow-clouded eye, 

And a heart sorrow-laden, 

A long, long sigh; 

For the cold strange eyes of a little 
Mermaiden, 

And the gleam of her golden hair. 

Come away, away, children; 

Come, children, come down! 

The hoarse wind blows colder; 

Lights shine in the town. 

She will start from her slumber 
When gusts shake the door; 

She will hear the winds howling, 

Will hear the waves roar. 

We shall see, while above us 
The waves roar and whirl, 

A ceiling of amber, 

A pavement of pearl. 

Singing: “Here came a mortal, 

But faithless was she! 

And alone dwell for ever 
The kings of the sea. ,, 

But children, at midnight, 

When soft the winds blow, 

When clear falls the moonlight, 

When spring-tides are low; 

When sweet airs come seaward 
From heaths starr’d with broom, 

And high rocks throw mildly 
On the blanch’d sands a gloom, 

Up the still, glistening beaches 
Up the creeks we will hie, 

Over banks of bright seaweed 
The ebb-tide leaves dry. 

We will gaze, from the sand-hills, 

At the white, sleeping town. 

At the church on the hill-side— 

And then come back down. 

Singing: “There dwells a loved one, 
But cruel is she! 

She left lonely for ever 
The kings of the sea. ’ ’ 

Matthew Arnold. 


THE RAVEN. 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while 
I pondered, weak and weary, 
Over many a quaint and curious vol¬ 
ume of forgotten lore— 

While I nodded, nearly napping, sud¬ 
denly there came a tapping, 

As of some one gently rapping, rap¬ 
ping at my chamber door— 

“ ’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, 
“tapping at my chamber door— 
Only this, and nothing more.” 

Ah! distinctly I remember, it was in 
the bleak December, 

And each separate dying ember 
wrought its ghost upon the floor; 
Eagerly I wished the morrow; vainly 
I had sought to borrow 
From my books surcease of sorrow— 
sorrow for the lost Lenore— 

For the rare and radiant maiden 
whom the angels name Lenore— 
Nameless here for evermore. 

And the silken, sad, uncertain rus¬ 
tling of each purple curtain 
Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic 
terrors never felt before; 

So that now, to still the beating of my 
heart, I stood repeating, 

“ ’Tis some visitor entreating en¬ 
trance at my chamber door— 
Some late visitor entreating entrance 
at my chamber door: 

This it is, and nothing more.” 

Presently my soul grew stronger; 

hesitating then no longer, 

“Sir,” said I, “or madam, truly your 
forgiveness I implore; 

But the fact is, I was napping, and so 
gently you came rapping. 

And so faintly you came tapping, tap¬ 
ping at my chamber door, 

That I scarce was sure I heard you.” 
Here I opened wide the door: 
Darkness there, and nothing more. 


Poems for Children 


484 

Deep into that darkness peering, long 
I stood there, wondering, fearing, 
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal 
ever dared to dream before; 

But the silence was unbroken, and the 
stillness gave no token, 

And the only word there spoken was 
the whispered word, “Lenore!” 
This I whispered, and an echo mur¬ 
mured back the word, “Lenore!” 
Merely this, and nothing more. 

Back into my chamber turning, all 
my soul within me burning, 

Soon again I heard a rapping, some¬ 
thing louder than before: 
“Surely,” said* I, “surely that is 
something at my window lattice; 
Let me see then, what thereat is, and 
this mystery explore— 

Let my heart be still a moment, and 
this mystery explore. 

Tis the wind, and nothing more.” 

Open here I flung the shutter, when, 
with many a flirt and flutter, 

In there stepped a stately Raven, of 
the saintly days of yore; 

Not the least obeisance made he, not 
a minute stopped or stayed he; 
But with mien of lord or lady, perched 
above my chamber door— 
Perched above a bust of Pallas, just 
above my chamber door— 
Perched, and sat, and nothing more. 

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad 
fancy into smiling, 

By the grave and stern decorum of 
the countenance it wore: 
“Though thy crest be shorn and 
shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure, 
no craven; 

Ghastly, grim, and ancient Raven, 
wandering from the nightly shore 
Tell me what thy lordly name is on 
the night’s Plutonian shore?” 
Quoth the Raven, “Never more.” 


Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl 
lo hear discourse so plainly, 
Though its answer little meaning, 
little relevancy bore; 

For we cannot help agreeing that no 
living human being 
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird 
above his chamber door— 

Bird or beast upon the sculptured 
bust above his chamber door 
With such name as “Never more.” 

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that 
placid bust, spoke only 
That one word, as if his soul in that 
one word he did outpour: 

Nothing further then he uttered, not 
a feather then he fluttered, 

Till I scarcely more than muttered— 
“Other friends have flown before, 
On the morrow he will leave me, as 
my hopes have flown before.” 
Then the bird said, “Never more.” 

Startled by the stillness broken by 
reply so aptly spoken, 
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters 
is its only stock and store, 
Caught from some unhappy master, 
whom unmerciful disaster 
Followed fast and followed faster, till 
his songs one burden bore— 

Till the dirges of his hope this melan¬ 
choly burden bore— 

Of ‘Never, never more.’ ” 

But the Raven still beguiling all my 
sad soul into smiling, 

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in 
front of bird, and bust, and door; 
Then upon the velvet sinking, I be¬ 
took myself to linking 
Fancy into fancy, thinking what this 
ominous bird of yore— 

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, 
gaunt, and ominous bird of yore 
Meant in croaking “Never more.” 


Miscellaneous 


Thus I sat engaged in guessing, but no 
syllable expressing 
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now 
burned into my bosom’s core; 

This and more I sat divining, with my 
head at ease reclining 
On the cushion’s velvet lining, that 
the lamp-light gloated o’er, 

But whose velvet violet lining, with 
the lamp-light gloating o’er, 

She shall press, ah, never more! 

Then methought the air grew denser, 
perfumed from an unseen censer 
Swung by seraphim, whose footfalls 
tinkled on the tufted floor. 
“Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath 
lent thee—b}^ these angels he 
hath sent thee 

Respite—respite and nepenthe from 
my memories of Lenore! 

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, 
and forget this lost Lenore!” 
Quoth the Raven, “Never more.” 

“Prophet,” said I, “thing of evil— 
prophet still, if bird or devil! 
Whether tempter sent, or whether 
tempest tossed thee here ashore 
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this 
desert land enchanted, 

On this home by horror haunted—tell 
me truly, I implore, 

Is there —is there balm in Gilead?— 
tell me, tell me, I implore!” 
Quoth the Raven, “Never more.” 

“Prophet,” said I, “thing of evil!— 
prophet still, if bird or devil! 

By that heaven that bends above us— 
by that God we both adore— 

Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if, 
within the distant Aiden, 

It shall clasp a sainted maiden, whom 
the angels name Lenore: 

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, 
whom the angels name Lenore!” 
Quoth the Raven, “Never more.” 


485 

“Be that word our sign of parting, 
bird or fiend,” I shrieked up¬ 
starting— 

“Get thee back into the tempest and 
the night’s Plutonian shore; 

Leave no black plume as a token of 
that lie thy soul hath spoken, 

Leave my loneliness unbroken—quit 
the bust above my door, 

Take thy beak from out my heart, and 
take thy form from off my door! ” 
Quoth the Raven, “Never more.” 

And the Raven, never flitting, still is 
sitting, still is sitting, 

On the pallid bust of Pallas, just 
above my chamber door; 

And his eyes have all the seeming of 
a demon’s that is dreaming, 

And the lamp-light o’er him stream¬ 
ing, throws his shadow on the 
floor; 

And my soul from out that shadow, 
that lies floating on the floor, 
Shall be lifted—never more! 

Edgar Allan Poe. 


THE LOTOS-EATERS. 

“Courage!” he said, and pointed to¬ 
ward the land, 

“This mounting wave will roll us 
shoreward soon.” 

In the afternoon they came unto a 
land 

In which it seemed always afternoon. 

All round the coast the languid air 
did swoon, 

Breathing like one that hath a weary 
dream. 

Full-faced above the valley stood the 
moon; 

And, like a downward smoke, the 
slender stream 

Along the cliff to fall and pause and 
fall did seem. 


486 Poems for 

A land of streams! some, like a down¬ 
ward smoke, 

Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, 
did go; 

And some through wavering lights 
and shadows broke, 

Rolling a slumberous sheet of foam 
below. 

They saw the gleaming river seaward 
flow 

From the inner land: far off, three 
mountain-tops, 

Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, 

Stood sunset-flushed; and, dewed 
with showery drops, 

Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the 
woven copse. 

The charmed sunset lingered low 
adown 

I11 the red West: through mountain 
clefts the dale 

Was seen far inland, and the yellow 
down 

Bordered with palm, and many a 
winding vale 

And meadow, set with slender gal- 
ingale ; 

A land where all things always seemed 
the same! 

And round about the keel with faces 
pale, 

Dark faces pale against that rosy 
flame, 

The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos- 
eaters came. 

Branches they bore of that enchanted 
stem, 

Laden with flower and fruit, whereof 
they gave 

To each, but whoso did receive of 
them 

And taste, to him the gushing of the 
wave 

Far, far away did seem to mourn and 
rave 


Children 

On alien shores; and if his fellow 
spake, 

His voice was thin, as voices from the 
grave; 

And deep-asleep he seemed, yet all 
awake, 

And music in his ears his beating 
heart did make. 

They sat them down upon the yellow 
sand, 

Between the sun and moon upon the 
shore; 

And sweet it was to dream of Father- 
land, 

Of child, and wife, and slave; but 
evermore 

Most weary seemed the sea, weary the 
oar, 

Weary the wandering fields of barren 
foam. 

Then some one said, “We will return 
no more; ’ ’ 

And all at once they sang, “Our 
island home 

Is far beyond the wave; we will no 
longer roam.” 

Alfred Tennyson. 


THE THREE FISHERS. 

Three fishers went sailing away to 
the West, 

Away to the West as the sun went 
down; 

Each thought on the woman who 
loved him the best, 

And the children stood watching 
them out of the town; 

For men must work, and women 
must weep, 

And there’s little to earn, and many 
to keep, 

Though the harbor-bar be moan¬ 
ing. 


Miscellaneous 


Three wives sat up in the lighthouse 
tower, 

And trimmed the lamps as the sun 
went down, 

And they looked at the squall, and 
they looked at the shower, 

And the night rack came rolling 
up, ragged and brown; 

But men must work, and women 
must weep, 

Though storms be sudden, and wa¬ 
ters deep, 

And the harbor-bar be moaning. 

Three corpses lay out on the shining 
sands, 

In the morning gleam as the tide 
went down, 

And the women are watching and 
wringing their hands, 

For those who will never come home 
to the town. 

For men must work, and women 
must weep, 

And the sooner it’s over, the sooner 
to sleep, 

And good-bye to the bar and its 
moaning. 

Charles Kingsley. 

THE HIDDEN MERMAIDS. 

Sand, sand, hills of sand, 

And the wind where nothing is 
Green and sweet of the land— 

No grass, no trees, 

No birds, no butterfly, 

But hills, hills of sand, 

And a burning sky. 

Sea, sea mounds of the sea, 

Hollow and dark and blue, 
Flashing incessantly 
The whole sea through; 

No flower, no jutting root, 

Only the floor of the sea 
With foam afloat. 


487 

Blow, blow windy shells 1 
And the watery fish, 

Deaf to the hidden bells 
In the waters plash: 

No streaming gold, no eyes 
Watching along the waves, 

But far-blown shells, faint bells, 
From the darkling caves. 

“Walter Ramal.” 


HOW SWEET I ROAMED.* 

How sweet I roam’d from field to 
field 

And tasted all the summer’s pride, 

Till I the Prince of Love beheld 
Who in the sunny beams did glide! 

He shew’d me lilies for my hair, 

And blushing roses for my brow; 

He led me through his gardens fair 
Where all his golden pleasures 
grow. 

With sweet May-dews my wings were 
wet, 

And Phoebus fired my vocal rage; 

He caught me in his silken net, 

And shut me in his golden cage. 

He loves to sit and hear me sing, 
Then, laughing, sports and plays 
with me; 

Then stretches out my golden wing 
And mocks my loss of liberty. 

William Blake. 


ON ANOTHER’S SORROW. 

Can I see another’s woe, 

And not be in sorrow too? 

Can I see another’s grief, 

And not seek for kind relief? 

* Said to have been written when the 
Author was under 14 years old. 


Poems for Children 


488 

Can I see a falling tear, 

And not feel my sorrow’s share? 

Can a father see his child, 

Weep, nor be with sorrow filled? 

Can a mother sit and hear 
An infant groan, an infant fear? 

No, no! never can it be! 

Never, never can it be! 

And can He who smiles on all, 

Hear the wren with sorrows small, 
Hear the small bird’s grief and care; 
Hear the woes that infants bear— 

And not sit beside the nest, 

Pouring pity in their breast, 

And not sit the cradle near, 

Weeping tear on infant’s tear? 

And not sit both night and day, 
Wiping all our tears away; 

Oh no! never can it be: 

Never, never can it be! 

He doth give His joy to all: 

He becomes an infant small, 

He becomes a man of woe, 

He doth feel the sorrow too. 

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh, 

And thy Maker is not by: 

Think not thou canst weep a tear, 

And thy Maker is not near. 

Oh, He who gives to us His joy, 

That our grief He may destroy: 

Till our grief is fled and gone 
He doth sit by us and moan. 

William Blake. 

THE LOST PLAYMATE. 

There is wind where the rose was, 
Cold rain where sweet grass was, 
And clouds like sheep 
Stream o’er the steep 
Grey sky where the lark was. 


Nought gold where your hair was; 
Nought warm where your hand was; 
But phantom, forlorn, 

Beneath the thorn 
Your ghost where your face was. 

Sad winds where your voice was; 
Tears, tears, where my heart was; 
And ever with me, 

Child, ever with me 
Silence where hope was. 

“Walter Ilamal.” 


HOLY THURSDAY. 

’Twas on a Holy Thursday, their 
innocent faces clean, 

The children walking two and two, in 
red and blue and green, 
Grey-headed beadles walk’d before 
with wands as white as snow, 

Till into the high dome of Paul’s they 
like Thames’ waters flow. 

Oh what a multitude they seem’d, 
these flowers of London town; 
Seated in companies, they sit with 
radiance all their own. 

The hum of multitudes was there, but 
multitudes of lambs, 

Thousands of little boys and girls 
raising their innocent hands. 

Now like a mighty wind they raise to 
heaven the voice of song, 

Or like harmonious thunderings the 
seats of heaven among. 

Beneath them sit the aged men, wise 
guardians of the poor; 

Then cherish pity lest you drive an 
angel from your door. 

William Blake. 


Miscellaneous 


ON FIRST LOOKING INTO 
CHAPMAN’S HOMER. 

Much have I traveled in the realms of 
gold, 

And many goodly states and king¬ 
doms seen; 

Round many western islands have 
I been 

Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. 

Oft of one wide expanse had I been 
told 

That deep-browed Homer ruled as 
his demesne: 

Yet did I never breathe its pure 
serene 

Till I heard Chapman speak out loud 
and bold; 

Then felt I like some watcher of the 
skies 

When a new planet swings into his 
ken; 

Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle 
eyes 

He stared at the Pacific—and all 
his men 

Looked at each other with a wild 
surmise— 

Silent, upon a peak in Darien. 

John Keats . 


JOHN ANDERSON. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 
When we were first aequent 
Your locks were like the raven, 
Your bonnie brow was brent; 

But now your brow is bald, John, 
Your locks are like the snaw; 

But blessings on your frosty pow, 
John Anderson my jo. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither, 

And mony a canty day, John, 
We’ve had wi’ ane anither: 


489 

Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand we’ll go, 

And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson my jo. 

Robert Burns. 

THE MILLER OF THE DEE. 

There dwelt a miller, hale and bold, 
Beside the River Dee; 

He wrought and sang from morn till 
night, 

No lark more blithe than he; 

And this the burden of his song 
Forever used to be, 

“I envy no man, no, not I, 

And no one envies me! ’ ’ 

“Thou’rt wrong, my friend!” said 
old King Hal, 

‘ ‘ As wrong as wrong can be; 

For could my heart be light as thine, 
I’d gladly change with thee. 

And tell me now what makes thee 
sing 

With voice so loud and free, 

While I am sad, though I’m the King, 
Beside the River Dee?” 

The miller smiled and doffed his cap: 

“I earn my bread,” quoth he; 

“I love my wife, I love my friend, 

I love my children three. 

I owe no one I cannot pay, 

I thank the River Dee, 

That turns the mill that grinds the 
corn 

To feed my babes and me!” 

“Good friend,” said Hal, and sighed 
the while, 

“Farewell! and happy be; 

But say no more, if thou’dst be true, 
That no one envies thee. 


Poems for Children 


49 ° 

Thy mealy cap is worth my crown; 

Thy mill my kingdom’s fee! 

Such men as thou are England’s 
boast, 

Oh, miller of the Dee!” 

Charles Mackay. 


ANSWER TO A CHILD’S 
QUESTION. 

Do you ask what the birds say ? The 
sparrow, the dove, 

The linnet, and thrush say, “I love, 
and I love! ’ ’ 

In the winter they’re silent, the wind 
is so strong; 

What it says I don’t know, but it 
sings a loud song. 

But green leaves, and blossoms, and 
sunny warm weather, 

And singing and loving—all come 
back together. 

But the lark is so brimful of glad¬ 
ness and love, 

The green fields below him, the blue 
sky above, 

That he sings, and he sings, and for 
ever sings he, 

“I love my Love, and my Love loves 
me.” 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 


THE NIGHT HAS A THOUSAND 

EYES. 

The night has a thousand eyes, 

And the day but one; 

Yet the light of the bright world dies 
With the dying sun. 

The mind has a thousand eyes, 

And the heart but one; 

Yet the light of a whole life dies 
When love is done. 

Francis William Bourdillon. 


FORBEARANCE. 

Hast thou named all the birds with¬ 
out a gun? 

Loved the wood-rose, and left it on 
its stalk? 

At rich men’s tables eaten bread and 
pulse ? 

Unarmed, faced danger with a heart 
of trust? 

And loved so well a high behavior, 

In man or maid, that thou from 
speech refrained, 

Nobility more nobly to repay? 

0, be my friend, and teach me to be 
thine! 

Ralph Waldo Emerson. 


THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY 
LIFE. 

How happy is he born and taught 
That serveth not another’s will; 
Whose armor is his honest thought, 
And simple truth his utmost skill! 

Whose passions not his masters are, 
Whose soul is still prepared for death, 
Not tied unto the world with care 
Of public fame, or private breath; 

Who envies none that chance doth 
raise 

Or vice; who never understood 
How deepest wounds are given by 
praise; 

Nor rules of state, but rules of good: 

Who hath his life from rumors freed; 
Whose conscience is his strong re¬ 
treat ; 

Whose state can neither flatterers 
feed, 

Nor ruin make accusers great; 


Miscellaneous 


AVho God doth late and early pray 
More of His grace than gifts to lend; 
And entertains the harmless day 
AVith a well-chosen book or friend; 

—This man is freed from servile 
bands 

Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; 

Lord of himself, though not of lands ; 
And having nothing, yet hath all. 

Henry Wotton. 


THE NOBLE NATURE. 

It is not growing like a tree 

In bulk, doth make man better 
be; 

Or standing long an oak, three hun¬ 
dred year, 

To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and 
sear: 

A lily of a day 
Is fairer far in May, 

Although it fall and die that 
night,— 

It was the plant and flower of Light. 

In small proportions we just beauties 
see, 

And in short measures life may per¬ 
fect be. 

Ben Jonson. 


EXCELSIOR. 

The shades of night were falling fast, 
As through an Alpine village passed 
A youth, who bore, ’mid snow and ice, 
A banner, with the strange device, 
Excelsior! 

His brow was sad; his eye beneath 
Flashed like a faulchion from its 
sheath, 


49 1 

And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue, 
Excelsior! 

In happy homes he saw the light 
Of household fires gleam warm and 
bright; 

Above, the spectral glaciers shone, 
And from his lips escaped a groan, 
Excelsior! 

“Try not the Pass!” the old man 
said, 

“Dark lowers the tempest overhead, 
The roaring torrent is deep and 
wide!’ ’ 

And loud that clarion voice replied, 
Excelsior! 

“0 stay!” the maiden said, “and 
rest 

Thy weary head upon this breast!” 

A tear stood in his bright blue eye, 
But still he answered, with a sigh, 
Excelsior! 

“Beware the pine-tree’s withered 
branch! 

Beware the awful avalanche!” 

This was the peasant’s last good¬ 
night ! 

A voice replied, far up the height, 
Excelsior! 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of Saint Bernard 
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 

A voice cried through the startled air, 
Excelsior! 

A traveler, by the faithful hound, 
Half-buried in the snow, was found, 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner, with the strange device 
Excelsior! 


Poems for Children 


49 2 

There, in the twilight cold and grey, 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, 

And from the sky, serene and far, 

A voice fell, like a falling star, 
Excelsior! 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow . 


WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. 

Woodman, spare that tree! 

Touch not a single bough! 

In youth it sheltered me, 

And I’ll protect it now. 

’Twas my forefather’s hand 
That placed it near his cot; 
There, woodman, let it stand, 

Thy axe shall harm it not! 

That old familiar tree, 

Whose glory and renown 
Are spread o’er land and sea,— 
And wouldst thou hew it down ? 
Woodman, forbear thy stroke! 

Cut not its earth-bound ties; 

O, spare that aged oak, 

Now towering to the skies! 

When but an idle boy 

I sought its grateful shade; 

In all their gushing joy 

Here, too, my sisters played. 

My mother kissed me here; 

My father pressed my hand— 
Forgive this foolish tear, 

But let that old oak stand! 

My heart-strings round thee cling, 
Close as thy bark, old friend! 
Here shall the wild-bird sing, 

And still thy branches bend. 

Old tree! the storm still brave! 

And, woodman, leave the spot; 
While I’ve a hand to save, 

Thy axe shall harm it not. 

George Pope Morris. 


CONTENTMENT. 

My mind to me a kingdom is; 

Such perfect joy therein I find, 

As far exceeds all earthly bliss 

That world affords, or grows by 
kind: 

Though much I want what most men 
have, 

Yet doth my mind forbid me crave. 

Content I live—this is my stay; 

I seek no more than may suffice— 
I press to bear no haughty sway; 
Look—what I lack my mind sup¬ 
plies. 

Lo! thus I triumph like a king, 
Content with that my mind doth 
bring. 

I see how plenty surfeits oft, 

And hasty climbers oft do fall; 

I see how those that sit aloft 

Mishap doth threaten most of all; 
They get—they toil—they spend with 
care: 

Such cares my mind could never bear. 

I laugh not at another’s loss, 

I grudge not at another’s gain; 

No worldly wave my mind can toss; 

I brook that is another’s pain. 

I fear no foe—I scorn no friend: 

I dread no death—I fear no end. 

Some have too much, yet still they 
crave; 

I little have, yet seek no more: 
They are but poor, though much they 
have, 

And I am rich—with little store. 
They poor, I rich; they beg, I give: 
They lack, I lend: they pine, I live. 

I wish not what I have at will: 

I wander not to seek for more: 

I like the plain; I climb no hill: 

In greatest storm I sit on shore, 


Miscellaneous 


And laugh at those that toil in vain, 

To gain what must be lost again. 

This is my choice; for why—I find 
No wealth is like a quiet mind. 

Edward Dyer. 

THE BOY AND THE ANGEL. 

Morning, evening, noon, and night, 

‘ ‘ Praise God, ’ ’ sang Theocrite. 

Then to his poor trade he turned, 

By which the daily meal was earned. 

Hard he laboured, long and well; 
Over his work the boy’s curls fell: 

But ever, at each period, 

He stopped and sang, “Praise God.” 

Then back again his curls he threw, 
And cheerful turned to work anew. 

Said Blaise, the listening monk, “Well 
done; 

I doubt not thou art heard, my son.” 

“As well as if thy voice to-day 
Were praising God, the Pope’s great 
way. 

“This Easter Day the Pope at Rome 
Praises God from Peter’s dome.” 

Said Theocrite, “Would God that I 
Might praise Him, that great way, 
and die! ” 

Night passed, day shone 
And Theocrite was gone. 

With God a day endures alway, 

A thousand years are but a day. 

God said in Heaven, “Nor day nor 
night 

Now brings the voice of my delight. 


493 

Then Gabriel, like a rainbow’s birth, 
Spread his wings and sank to earth; 

Entered in flesh, the empty cell, 

Lived there and played the craftsman 
well: 

And morning, evening, noon and 
night, 

Praised God in place of Theocrite. 

And from a boy, to youth he grew; 
The man put off the stripling’s hue; 

The man matured and fell away 
Into the season of decay; 

And ever o’er the trade he bent, 

And ever lived on earth content. 

(He did God’s will; to him all one 
If on the earth or in the sun.) 

God said, “A praise is in my ear: 
There is no doubt in it, no fear; 

“So sing, old worlds, and so 
New worlds that from my footstool go. 

‘ 1 Clearer loves sound other ways: 

I miss my little human praise.” 

Then forth sprang Gabriel’s wings; 
off fell 

The flesh disguise, remained the cell. 

’Twas Easter Day: he flew to Rome, 
And paused above Saint Peter’s dome. 

In the tiring-room close by 
The great outer gallery, 

With his holy vestments dight, 

Stood the new Pope, Theocrite: 

And all his past career 
Came back upon him clear, 


494 Poems for 

Since when, a boy, he plied his trade, 
Till on his life the sickness weighed; 

And in his cell, when death drew near, 
An angel in a dream brought cheer: 

And rising from the sickness drear 
He grew a priest, and now stood here. 

To the East with praise he turned, 

And on his right the angel burned. 

*‘1 bore thee from thy craftsman’s cell 
And set thee here; I did not well. 

“Vainly I left my angel’s sphere, 

Vain was thy dream of many a year. 

“Thy voice’s praise seemed weak; it 
dropped— 

Creation’s chorus stopped! 

“Go back and praise again 
The early way—while I remain. 

“With that weak voice of our disdain, 
Take up Creation’s pausing strain. 

“Back to the cell and poor employ: 
Become the craftsman and the boy!” 

Theocrite grew old at home; 

A new Pope dwelt in Peter’s Dome. 

One vanished as the other died: 

They sought God side by side. 

Robert Browning. 

ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE 
ANGEL. 

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe 
increase) 

Awoke one night from a deep dream 
of peace, 

And saw, within the moonlight of the 
room, 

Making it rich, and like a lily in 
bloom, 


Children 

An angel writing in a book of gold:— 

Exceeding peace had made Ben 
Adhem bold, 

And to the presence in the room he 
said, 

“What writest thou?” The vision 
rais’d his head, 

And with a look made of all sweet 
accord, 

Answer’d, “The names of those who 
love the Lord.” 

1 ‘ And is mine one ? ’ ’ said Abou. 
“Nay, not so,” 

Replied the angel. Abou spoke more 
low, 

But cheerly still; and said: “I pray 
thee then, 

Write me as one that loves his fellow 
men. ’ ’ 

The angel wrote, and vanish’d. The 
next night 

It came again with a great wakening 
light, 

And show’d the names whom love of 
God had bless’d 

And lo! Ben Adhem’s name led all 
the rest. 

Leigh Hunt. 


WOLSEY. 

Cromwell, I did not think to shed a 
tear 

In all my miseries; but thou hast 
forced me 

Out of thy honest truth to play the 
woman. 

Let’s dry our eyes; and thus far hear 
me, Cromwell; 

And—when I am forgotten, as I shall 
be, 

And sleep in dull cold marble, where 
no mention 

Of me more must be heard of,—say, I 
taught thee; 


Miscellaneous 


Say, Wolsey,—that once trod the ways 
of glory, 

And sounded all the depths and shoals 
of honour,— 

Found thee a way, out of his wreck, to 
rise in; 

A sure and safe one, though thy 
master miss’d it. 

Mark but my fall, and that that 
ruin’d me. 

Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away 
ambition; 

By that sin fell the angels; how can 
man then, 

The image of his Maker, hope to win 
by’t t 

Love thyself last: cherish those hearts 
that hate thee; 

Corruption wins not more than hon¬ 
esty. 

Still to thy right hand carry gentle 
peace, 

To silence envious tongues. Be just 
and fear not; 

Let all the ends thou aim’st at be thy 
country’s, 

Thy God’s, and truth’s; then if thou 
fall’st, 0 Cromwell, 

Thou fall’st a blessed martyr! 

William Shakespeare. 


MERCY. 

The quality of mercy is not strained; 

It droppeth as the gentle rain from 
heaven 

Upon the place beneath: it is twice 
blessed; 

It blesseth him that gives, and him 
that takes: 

’Tis mightiest in the mightiest; it 
becomes 

The throned monarch better than his 
crown: 

His sceptre shows the force of tem¬ 
poral power, 


495 

The attribute to awe and majesty, 

Wherein doth sit the dread and fear 
of kings; 

But mercy is above the sceptred sway, 

It is enthroned in the hearts of kings, 

It is an attribute to God Himself; 

And earthly power doth then show 
likest God’s, 

When mercy seasons justice. There¬ 
fore, Jew, 

Though justice be thy plea, consider 
this, 

That, in the course of justice, none of 
us 

Should see salvation. We do pray for 
mercy; 

And that same prayer doth teach us 
all to render 

The deeds of mercy. 

William Shakespeare. 

PACK CLOUDS AWAY. 

Pack, clouds, away! and welcome, 
day! 

With night we banish sorrow: 

Sweet air, blow soft! mount, lark, 
aloft! 

To give my Love good-morrow; 

Wings from the wind, to please her 
mind, 

Notes from the lark I’ll borrow. 

Bird, prune thy wing! nightingale, 
sing! 

To give my Love good-morrow. 

To give my Love good-morrow, 

Notes from them all I’ll borrow. 

Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast! 

Sing, birds, in every furrow! 

And from each hill let music shrill 

Give my fair Love good-morrow. 

Blackbird and thrush, in every bush— 

Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow, 


Poems for Children 


496 

You pretty elves—amongst yourselves 
Sing my fair Love good-morrow! 

To give my Love good-morrow, 
Sing, birds, in every furrow! 

Thomas Heywood. 


HOME THEY BROUGHT HER 
WARRIOR DEAD. 

Home they brought her warrior dead; 

She nor swoon’d nor utter’d cry; 
All her maidens, watching, said, 

‘ ‘ She must weep or she will die. ’ ’ 

Then they praised him, soft and low, 
Call’d him worthy to be loved, 
Truest friend and noblest foe; 

Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 

Stole a maiden from her place, 
Lightly to the warrior stept, 

Took the face-cloth from the face; 
Yet she neither moved nor wept. 

Rose a nurse of ninety years, 

Set his child upon her knee— 

Like summer tempest came her tears— 
“Sweet, my child, I live for thee.” 

Alfred Tennyson. 

THE CAVALIER’S ESCAPE. 

Trample! trample! went the roan, 
Trap! trap! went the gray; 

But pad! pad! pad ! like a thing that 
was mad, 

My chestnut broke away. 

It was just five miles from Salisbury 
town, 

And but one hour to day. 

Thud! Thud ! came on the heavy roan, 
Rap! Rap ! the mettled gray; 

But my chestnut mare was of blood 
so rare, 


That she showed them all the way. 

Spur on! spur on!—I doffed my hat, 

And wished them all good-day. 

They splashed through miry rut and 
pool,— 

Splintered through fence and rail; 

But chestnut Kate switched over the 
gate,— 

I saw them droop and tail. 

To Salisbury town—but a mile of 
down, 

Once over this brook and rail. 

Trap! trap! I heard their echoing 
hoofs 

Past the walls of mossy stone; 

The roan flew on at a staggering pace, 

But blood is better than bone. 

I patted old Kate, and gave her the 
spur, 

For I knew it was all my own. 

But trample! trample! came their 
steeds, 

And I saw their wolf’s eyes burn; 

I felt like a royal hart at bay, 

And made me ready to turn. 

I looked where highest grew the May, 

And deepest arched the fern. 

I fleAV at the first knave’s sallow 
throat; 

One blow, and he was down. 

The second rogue fired twice, and 
missed; 

I sliced the villain’s crown,— 

Clove through the rest, and flogged 
brave Kate, 

Fast, fast to Salisbury town! 

Pad! pad! they came on the level 
sward, 

Thud! thud! upon the sand,— 


Miscellaneous 


With a gleam of swords and a burn¬ 
ing match, 

And a shaking of flag and hand; 
But one long bound, and I passed the 
gate, 

Safe from the canting band. 

Walter Thornbury. 

THE BLIND MEN AND THE 
ELEPHANT. 

A Hindoo Fable. 

It was six men of Indostan 
To learning much inclined, 

Who went to see the Elephant 
(Though all of them were blind), 
That each by observation 
Might satisfy his mind. 

The First approached the Elephant, 
And happening to fall 
Against his broad and sturdy side, 

At once began to bawl: 

‘ ‘ God bless me! but the Elephant 
Is very like a wall!” 

The Second, feeling of the tusk, 

Cried, “Ho! what have we here 
So very round and smooth and sharp ? 

To me ’tis mighty clear 
This wonder of an Elephant 
Is very like a spear! 5 ’ 

The Third approached the animal, 
And happening to take 
The squirming trunk within his hands, 
Thus boldly up and spake: 

“I see,” quoth he, “the Elephant 
Is very like a snake!” 

The Fourth reached out an eager 
hand, 

And felt about the knee. 

“What most this wondrous beast is 
like 


497 

Is mighty plain, ’ ’ quoth he; 

“ ’Tis clear enough the Elephant 
Is very like a tree! ’ ’ 

The Fifth who chanced to touch the 
ear, 

Said: “E’en the blindest man 
Can tell what this resembles most; 

Deny the fact who can, 

This marvel of an Elephant 
Is very like a fan!” 

The Sixth no sooner had begun 
About the beast to grope, 

Than, seizing on the swinging tail 
That fell within his scope, 

“I see,” quoth he, “the Elephant 
Is very like a rope!” 

And so these men of Indostan 
Disputed loud and long, 

Each in his own opinion 
Exceeding stiff and strong, 

Though each was partly in the right 
And all were in the wrong! 


moral 

So oft in theologic wars, 

The disputants, I ween, 

Rail on in utter ignorance 
Of what each other mean, 

And prate about an Elephant 
Not one of them has seen! 

John Godfrey Saxe. 


THE EARTH AND MAN. 

A little sun, a little rain, 

A soft wind blowing from the 
west— 

And woods and fields are sweet again, 
And warmth within the mountain’s 
breast. 


Poems for Children 


498 

So simple is the earth we tread, 

So quick with love and life her 
frame: 

Ten thousand years have dawned and 
fled, 

And still her magic is the same. 

A little love, a little trust, 

A soft impulse, a sudden dream— 
And life as dry as desert dust 

Is fresher than a mountain stream. 

So simple is the heart of man, 

So ready for new hope and joy: 
Ten thousand years since it began 
Have left it younger than a boy. 

Stopford Augustus Brooke. 


THE ORPHAN’S SONG* 

I had a little bird, 

I took it from the nest; 

I prest it and blest it, 

And nurst it in my breast. 

I set it on the ground, 

I danced round and round, 

And sang about it so cheerly, 

With “Hey, my little bird, and hoi 
my little bird, 

And oh! but I love thee dearly!” 

I make a little feast 

Of food soft and sweet, 

I hold it in my breast, 

And coax it to eat; 

I pit, and I pat, 

I call this and that, 

And I sing about so cheerly, 

With ‘ ‘ Hey, my little bird, and ho I 
my little bird, 

And ho! but I love thee dearly . 1 y 

Sydney Dobell. 


YOUNG AND OLD. 

From “ The Water Babies.” 

When all the world is young, lad, 
And all the trees are green; 

And every goose a swan, lad, 

And every lass a queen; 

Then hey for boot and horse, lad, 
And round the world away; 

Young blood must have its course, lad 
And every dog his day. 

When all the world is old, lad, 

And all the trees are brown; 

And all the sport is stale, lad, 

And all the wheels run down: 
Creep home, and take your place 
there, 

The spent and maimed among: 

God grant you find one face there 
You loved when all was young. 

Charles Kingsley. 

THE PILGRIM. 

Who would true valour see, 

Let him come hither! 

One here will constant be, 

Come wind, come weather; 
There’s no discouragement 
Shall make him once relent 
His flint-avow’d intent 
To be a Pilgrim. 

Whoso beset him round 
With dismal stories, 

Do but themselves confound; 

His strength the more is. 

No lion can him fright; 

He’ll with a giant fight; 

But he will have a right 
To be a Pilgrim. 

Nor enemy, nor friend, 

Can daunt his spirit; 

He knows he at the end 
Shall Life inherit:— 


Miscellaneous 


Then, fancies, fly away; 

He’ll not fear what men say; 
He’ll labour, night and day, 

To be a Pilgrim. 

John Bunyan. 


THE DREAMER. 

Bring not bright candles, for her eyes 
In twilight have sweet company; 

Bring not bright candles else they fly, 
Her phantoms fly, 

Gazing aggrieved on thee. 

Bring not bright candles; startle not 
The phantoms of a vacant room 

Flocking above a child that dreams— 
Deep, deep, in dreams, 

Hid in the gathering gloom. 

Bring not bright candles to those eyes 
That between earth and stars de¬ 
scry, 

Lovelier for the shadows there, 
Children of air, 

Palaces in the sky. 

“Walter Ramal.” 


IF I HAD BUT TWO LITTLE 
WINGS. 

If I had but two little wings 
And were a little feathery bird, 

To you I’d fly, my dear! 

But thoughts like these are idle things 
And I stay here. 

But in my sleep to you I fly: 

I’m always with you in my sleep! 
The world is all one’s own. 

But then one wakes, and where am I ? 
All, all alone. 


499 

Sleep stays not, though a monarch 
bids: 

So I love to wake ere break of day: 
For though my sleep be gone, 

Yet while ’tis dark, one shuts one’s 
lids, 

And still dreams on. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. 

From “ The Autocrat of the Breakfast 

Table.” 

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets 
feign, 

Sails the unshadowed main,— 

The venturous bark that flings 
On the sweet summer wind its purpled 
wings 

In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren 
sings, 

And coral reefs lie bare, 

Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun 
their streaming hair. 

Its webs of living gauze no more un¬ 
furl ; 

Wrecked is the ship of pearl! 

And every chambered cell, 

Where its dim dreaming life was wont 
to dwell, 

As the frail tenant shaped his growing 
shell, 

Before thee lies revealed,— 

Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless 
crypt unsealed! 

Year after year beheld the silent toil 

That spread his lustrous coil; 

Still, as the spiral grew, 

He left the past year’s dwelling for 
the new, 

Stole with soft step its shining arch¬ 
way through, 

Built up its idle door, 

Stretched in his last-found home, and • 
knew the old no more. 


Poems for Children 


500 

Thanks for the heavenly message 
brought by thee, 

Child of the wandering sea, 

Cast from her lap, forlorn! 

From thy dead lips a clearer note is 
born 

Than ever Triton blew from wreathed 
horn! 

While on mine ear it rings, 

Through the deep caves of thought I 
hear a voice that sings— 

Build thee more stately mansions, O 
my soul, 

As the swift seasons roll! 

Leave thy low-vaulted past! 

Let each new temple, nobler than the 
last, 

Shut thee from heaven with a dome 
more vast, 

Till thou at length art free, 

Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s 
unresting sea! 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 


LINES ON THE MERMAID 
TAVERN. 

Souls of Poets dead and gone, 

What Elysium have ye known, 

Happy field or mossy cavern, 

Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 
Have ye tippled drink more fine 
Than mine host’s Canary wine? * 

Or are fruits of Paradise 
Sweeter than those dainty pies 
Of venison? 0 generous food! 
Dressed as though bold Robin Hood 
Would, with his Maid Marian, 

Sup and bowse from horn and can. 

I have heard that on a day 
Mine host’s sign-board flew away 
Nobody knew whither, till 
An Astrologer’s old quill 


To a sheepskin gave the story,— 

Said he saw you in your glory, 
Underneath a new-old Sign 
Sipping beverage divine, 

And pledging with contented smack 
The Mermaid in the Zodiac! 

Souls of Poets dead and gone, 

What Elysium have ye known— 
Happy field or mossy cavern— 
Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern? 

John Keats. 

THE BELLS. 

I. 

Hear the sledges with the bells— 
Silver bells! 

What a world of merriment their 
melody foretells! 

How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 

In the icy air of night! 

While the stars that oversprinkle 
All the heavens seem to twinkle 
With a crystalline delight; 
Keeping time, time, time, 

In a sort of Runic rhyme, 

To the tintinabulation that so mu¬ 
sically swells 

From the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells— 

From the jingling and the tinkling 
of the bells. 

II. 

Hear the mellow wedding bells, 
Golden bells! 

What a world of happiness their 
harmony fortells! 

Through the balmy air of night 
How they ring out their delight!— 
From the molten golden notes, 
And all in tune, 

What a liquid ditty floats 


Miscellaneous 


To the turtle-dove that listens, while 
she gloats 

On the moon! 

Oh, from out the sounding cells, 

What a gush of euphony volumi¬ 
nously wells! 

How it swells 
How it dwells 
On the Future; how it tells 
Of the rapture that impels 
To the swinging and the ringing 
Of the bells, bells, bells, 

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 
Bells, bells, bells— 

To the rhyming and the chiming of 
the bells! 

III. 

Hear the loud alarum bells— 
Brazen bells! 

What a tale of terror now, their tur- 
bulency tells; 

In the startled air of night 
How they scream out their af¬ 
fright ! 

Too much horrified to speak 
They can only shriek, shriek, 
Out of tune, 

In the clamorous appealing to the 
mercy of the fire, 

In the mad expostulation with the 
deaf and frantic fire. 

Leaping higher, higher, higher, 
With a desperate desire, 

And a resolute endeavour 
Now—now to sit or never, 

By the side of the pale-faced moon, 
Oh, the bells, bells, bells! 

What a tale their tenor tells 
of Despair! 

How they clang and crash and roar! 

What a horror they outpour 

On the bosom of the palpitating air! 
Yet the air it fully knows, 

By the twanging, 

And the clanging, 


5 °i 

How the danger ebbs and flows; 
Yet the air distinctly tells, 

In the jangling, 

And the wrangling, 

How the danger sinks and swells, 
By the sinking or the swelling in the 
anger of the bells— 

Of the bells— 

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, 

Bells, bells, bells— 

In the clamor and the clangor of the 
bells! 

IV. 

Hear the tolling of the bells— 

Iron bells! 

What a world of solemn thought their 
melody compels! 

In the silence of the night, 

How we shiver with affright 
At the melancholy menace of their 
tone! 

For every sound that floats 
From the rust within their throats 
Is a groan. 

And the people—ah, the people— 
They that dwell up in the steeple, 
All alone. 

And who tolling, tolling, tolling, 

In that muffled monotone, 

Feel a glory in the rolling 

On the human heart a stone— 
They are neither man nor woman— 
They are neither brute nor human— 
They are Ghouls: 

And their king it is who tolls; 
And he rolls, rolls, rolls, 

Rolls. 

A paean from the bells! 

And his merry bosom swells 
With the paean from the bells! 
And he dances and he yells; 
Keeping time, time, time, 

In a sort of Runic rhyme, 

To the throbbing of the bells— 
Of the bells, bells, bells— 


502 


Poems for Children 


To the sobbing of the bells; 

Keeping time, time, time, 

As he knells, knells, knells, 

In a happy Runic rhyme, 

To the rolling of the bells— 

Of the bells, bells, bells— 

To the tolling of the bells, 

Of the bells, bells, bells, bells— 
Bells, bells, bells— 

To the moaning and the groaning of 
the bells. 

Edgar Allan Poe. 

ULYSSES. 

(Extracts) 

###### 

There lies the port; the vessel puffs 
her sail: 

There gloom the dark, broad seas. My 
mariners, 

Souls that have toiled, and wrought, 
and thought with me— 

That ever with a frolic welcome took 

The thunder and the sunshine, and 
opposed 

Free hearts, free foreheads—you and 
I are old; 

Old age hath yet his honor and his 
toil; 

Death closes all: but something ere 
the end, 

Some work of noble note, may yet be 
done, 

Not unbecoming men that strove with 
gods. 

The lights begin to twinkle from the 
rocks: 

The long day wanes: the slow moon 
climbs: the deep 

Moans round with many voices. Come, 
my friends, 

’Tis not too late to seek a newer world. 

Push off, and sitting well in order 
smite 


The sounding furrows; for my pur¬ 
pose holds 

To sail beyond the sunset, and the 
baths 

Of all the western stars, until I die. 

It may be that the gulfs will wash us 
down: 

It may be we shall touch the Happy 
Isles, 

And see the great Achilles, whom we 
knew. 

Though much is taken, much abides; 
and though 

We are not now that strength which 
in old days 

Moved earth and heaven; that which 
we are, we are;— 

One equal temper of heroic hearts, 

Made weak by time and fate, but 
strong in will 

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to 
yield. 

Alfred Tennyson . 

KUBLA KHAN. 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 

A stately pleasure-dome decree: 

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 

Through caverns measureless to man 
Down to a sunless sea. 

So twice five miles of fertile ground 

With walls and towers were girdled 
round: 

And there were gardens bright with 
sinuous rills 

Where blossomed many an incense- 
bearing tree; 

And here were forests ancient as the 
hills, 

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 

But oh! that deep romantic chasm 
which slanted 

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn 
cover! 

A savage place! as holy and enchanted 


Miscellaneous 


As e’er beneath a waning moon was 
haunted 

By woman wailing for her demon¬ 
lover ! 

And from this chasm, with ceaseless 
turmoil seething, 

As if this earth in fast thick pants 
were breathing, 

A mighty fountain momently was 
forced: 

Amid whose swift half-intermitted 
burst 

Huge fragments vaulted like rebound¬ 
ing hail, 

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s 
flail: 

And ’mid these dancing rocks at once 
and ever 

It flung up momently the sacred river, 

Five miles meandering with a mazy 
motion 

Through wood and dale the sacred 
river ran, 

Then reached the caverns measureless 
to man, 

And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: 

And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard 
from far 

Ancestral voices prophesying war! 

The shadow of the dome of pleasure 
Floated midway on the waves; 
Where was heard the mingled 
measure 

From the fountain and the caves. 

It was a miracle of rare device, 

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of 
ice! 

A damsel with a dulcimer 
In a vision once I saw: 

It was an Abyssinian maid, 

And on her dulcimer she played, 
Singing of Mount Abora. 

Could I revive within me 
Her symphony and song, 

To such a deep delight ’twould 
win me 


5°3 

That with music loud and long, 

I would build that dome in air, 

That sunny dome! those caves of ice! 
And all who heard should see them 
there, 

And all should cry, Beware! Beware! 
His flashing eyes, his floating hair! 
Weave a circle round him thrice, 

And close your eyes with holy dread, 
For he on honey-dew hath fed, 

And drunk the milk of Paradise. 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 

THE HAUNTED PALACE. 

In the greenest of our valleys, 

By good angels tenanted, 

Once a fair and stately palace— 
Radiant palace—reared its head. 

In the monarch Thought’s dominion— 
It stood there! 

Never seraph spread a pinion 
Over fabric half so fair. 

Banner yellow, glorious, golden, 

On its roof did float and flow; 

(This—all this—was in the olden 
Time long ago) 

And every gentle air that dallied, 

In that sweet day, 

Along the ramparts plumed and 
pallid, 

A winged odour went away. 

Wanderers in that happy valley 
Through two luminous windows saw 
Spirits moving musically 
To the lute’s well-tuned law, 

Round about a throne were sitting 
(Porphyrogene!) 

In state his glory well befitting, 

The ruler of the realm was seen. 

And all with pearl and ruby glowing 
Was the fair palace door, 

Through which came flowing, flowing, 
flowing, 

And sparkling evermore, 


Poems for Children 


5 ° 4 

A troup of Echoes whose sweet duty 
Was but to sing, 

In voices of surpassing beauty, 

The wit and wisdom of their king. 

But evil things in robes of sorrow, 
Assailed the monarch’s high estate; 
(Ah! let us mourn, for never morrow 
Shall dawn upon him desolate!) 
And round about his home, the glory 
That blushed and bloomed 
Is but a dim remembered story 
Of the old time entombed. 

And travellers now within that valley, 
Through the red-litten windows, see 
Vast forms that move fantastically 
To a discordant melody; 

While like a rapid ghastly river, 
Through the pale door, 

A hideous throng rush out forever, 
And laugh—but smile no more. 

Edgar Allan Poe . 

L’ALLEGRO. 

(Extracts) 

* * * * # * 

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with 
thee 

Jest and youthful Jollity, 

Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, 
Nods, and Becks, and Wreathed 
Smiles, 

Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek, 

And love to live in dimple sleek; 

Sport that wrinkled Care derides, 

And Laughter holding both his sides. 
Come, and trip it as ye go 
On the light fantastic toe, 

And in thy right hand lead with thee, 
The Mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty; 
And if I give thee honor due, 

Mirth, admit me of thy crew 
To live with her, and live with thee, 
In unreproved pleasures free; 


To hear the Lark begin his flight, 
And, singing, startle the dull night, 
From his watch-tower in the skies, 
Till the dappled dawn doth rise; 

Then to come in spite of sorrow, 

And at my window bid good-morrow, 
Through the Sweet-Briar, or the Vine, 
Or the twisted Eglantine. 

While the Cock, with lively din, 
Scatters the rear of darkness thin, 
And to the stack, or the Barn-door, 
Stoutly struts his Dames before, 

Oft listening how the Hounds and 
horn 

Clearly rouse the slumbering morn, 
From the side of some Hoar Hill, 
Through the high wood echoing shrill. 
Some time walking not unseen 
By Hedge-row Elms, on Hillocks 
green, 

Eight against the Eastern gate, 

Where the great Sun begins his state, 
Kobed in flames, and Amber light, 

The clouds in thousand Liveries dight. 
While the Plowman, near at hand, 
Whistles o’er the Furrowed Land, 
And the Milkmaid singeth blithe, 

And the Mower whets his scythe, 

And every shepherd tells his tale 
Under the Hawthorne in the dale. 
Straight mine eye hath caught new 
pleasures 

Whilst the Landscape round it meas¬ 
ures, 

Kusset Lawns, and Fallows Gray, 
Where the nibbling flocks do stray, 
Mountains on whose barren breast 
The laboring clouds do often rest: 
Meadows trim with Daisies pied, 
Shallow Brooks, and Rivers wide. 
Towers, and Battlements it sees 
Bosomed high in tufted Trees, 

Where perhaps some beauty lies, 

The Cynosure of neighboring eyes. 
Hard by a Cottage chimney smokes, 
From betwixt two aged Oaks, 

Where Corydon and Thyrsis met, 


Miscellaneous 


Are at their savory dinner set 
Of Herbs, and other Country Messes, 
Which the neat-handed Phillis 
dresses; 

And then in haste her Bower she 
leaves, 

With Thestylis to bind the Sheaves; 
Or, if the earlier season lead, 

To the tanned Haycock in the Mead. 
Sometimes with secure delight 
The up-land Hamlets will invite, 

When the merry Bells ring round, 

And the jocund rebecks sound 
To many a youth, and many a maid, 
Dancing in the Chequered shade; 

And young and old come forth to play 
On a Sunshine Holyday, 

Till the live-long day-light fail; 

Then to the Spicy Nut-brown Ale, 
With stories told of many a feat, 

How Faery Mab the junkets eat. 

She was pinched, and pulled she said; 
And he, by Friar’s Lantern led, 

Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat, 
To earn his Cream-bowl duly set, 
When in one night, ere glimpse of 
morn, 

His shadowy Flail hath threshed the 
Corn, 

That ten day-laborers could not end; 
Then lies him down the Lubbar Fiend, 
And stretched out all the Chimney’s 
length, 

Basks at the fire his hairy strength, 
And Crop-full out of doors he flings, 
Ere the first Cock his Matin rings. 
Thus done the Tales, to bed they creep 
By whispering Winds soon lulled 
asleep. 

Towered Cities please us then, 

And the busy hum of men, 

Where throngs of Knights and Barons 
bold, 

In weeds of Peace high triumphs hold, 
With store of Ladies, whose bright 
eyes 


505 

Rain influence, and judge the prize 
Of Wit, or Arms, while both contend 
To win her Grace, whom all commend. 
There let Hymen oft appear 
In Saffron robe, with Taper clear, 

And pomp, and feast, and revelry, 
With mask, and antique Pageantry, 
Such sights as youthful Poets dream 
On Summer eves by haunted stream. 
Then to the well-trod stage anon, 

If Jonson’s learned Sock be on, 

Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy’s 
child, 

Warble his native Wood-notes wild; 
And ever, against eating Cares, 

Lap me in soft Lydian Airs, 

Married to immortal verse 
Such as the meeting soul may pierce 
In notes, with many a winding bout 
Of linked sweetness long drawn out, 
With wanton heed, and giddy cun¬ 
ning, 

The melting voice through mazes run¬ 
ning ; 

Untwisting all the chains that tie 
The hidden soul of harmony; 

That Orpheus’ self may heave his 
head 

From golden slumber on a bed 
Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear 
Such strains as would have won the 
ear 

Of Pluto, to have quite set free 
His half-regained Eurydice. 

These delights, if thou canst give, 
Mirth, with thee I mean to live. 

John Milton . 

BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER 
WIND. 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind, 
Thou art not so unkind 
As man’s ingratitude; 

Thy tooth is not so keen, 

Because thou art not seen, 
Although thy breath be rude* 


Poems for Children 


506 

Heigh, ho! sing, heigh, ho! unto the 
green holly; 

Most friendship is feigning, most lov¬ 
ing mere folly: 

Then, heigh, ho, the holly! 

This life is most jolly. 

Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky, 
That dost not bite so nigh 
As benefits forgot: 

Though thou the waters warp, 
Thy sting is not so sharp 
As friends remember’d not. 

Heigh, ho! sing, heigh, ho! etc. 

William Shakespeare. 


ODE ON SOLITUDE.* 

Happy the man, whose wish and care 
A few paternal acres bound, 
Content to breathe his native air 

In his own ground. 

Whose herds with milk, whose fields 
with bread, 

Whose flocks supply him with at¬ 
tire, 

Whose trees in summer yield him 
shade 

In winter fire. 

Blest who can unconcern’dly find 
Hours, days and years slide soft 
away. 

In health of body, peace of mind, 

Quiet by day, 

Sound sleep by night; study and ease, 
Together mix’d; sweet recreation, 
And innocence, which most does 
please, 

With meditation. 

* Written when the Author was about 
twelve years old. 


Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; 

Thus unlamented let me die, 

Steal from the world, and not a stone 

Tell where I lie. 

Alexander Pope. 


O FOR A MOON TO LIGHT 
ME HOME. 

O for a moon to light me home! 

0 for a lanthorn green! 

For those sweet stars the Pleiades, 
That glitter in the twilight trees; 

0 for a lovelorn taper! 0 

For a lanthorn green! 

0 for a frock of tartan! 

0 for clear, wild, grey eyes! 

For fingers light as violets, 

’Neath branches that the blackbird 
frets; 

0 for a thistly meadow! 0 

For clear, wild grey eyes. 

0 for a heart like almond boughs! 

0 for sweet thoughts like rain! 

0 for first-love like fields of grey, 
Shut April—buds at break of day! 

0 for sleep like music! 

For still dreams like rain! 

(< Walter Ramal." 


PEACE BE AROUND THEE. 

Peace be around thee, wherever thou 
rov’st; 

May life be for thee one summer’s 
day, 

And all that thou wishest, and all that 
thou lov’st, 

Come smiling around thy sunny 
way! 

If sorrow e’er this calm should break, 

May even thy tears pass off so 
lightly, 


Miscellaneous 


Like spring-flowers, they’ll only make 
The smiles that follow shine more 
brightly. 

May Time, who sheds his blight o’er 
all, 

And daily dooms some joy to death, 
O’er thee let years so gently fall, 
They shall not crush one flower be¬ 
neath. 

As half in shade and half in sun 
This world along its path advances, 
May that side the sun’s upon, 

Be all that e’er shall meet thy 
glances! 

Thomas Moore. 

OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT. 

Oft in the stilly night, 

Ere Slumber’s chain has bound me, 
Fond Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me; 

The smiles, the tears, 

Of boyhood’s years, 

The words of love then spoken; 

The eyes that shone, 

Now dimmed and gone, 

The cheerful hearts now broken! 
Thus, in the stilly night, 

Ere Slumber’s chain has bound me, 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

When I remember all 

The friends, so linked together, 

I ’ve seen around me fall, 

Like leaves in wintry weather, 

I feel like one 
Who treads alone 
Some banquet-hall deserted, 

Whose lights are fled, 

Whose garlands dead, 

And all but he departed! 

Thus, in the stilly night, 

Ere Slumber’s chain has bound me, 
Sad Memory brings the light 
Of other days around me. 

Thomas Moore. 


5 ° 7 

FULL FATHOM FIVE THY 
FATHER LIES. 

Full fathom five thy father lies; 

Of his bones are coral made; 

Those are pearls, that were his eyes: 

Nothing of him that doth fade 
But doth suffer a sea-change. 
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell: 
Hark! now I hear them—ding, dong, 
dell. 

Burden , Ding-dong. 

William Shakespeare. 


THE DEACON’S MASTERPIECE, OR 
THE WONDERFUL “ ONE- 
HOSS SHAY.” 

A Logical Story. 

Have you heard of the wonderful one- 
hoss shay, 

That was built in such a logical way 
It ran a hundred years to a day, 

And then of a sudden, it—ah, but 
stay, 

I’ll tell you what happened without 
delay, 

Scaring the parson into fits, 
Frightening people out of their 
wits,— 

Have you heard of that, I say? 

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five, 
Georgius Sccundus was then alive,— 
Snuffy old drone from the German 
hive. 

That was the year when Lisbon-town 
Saw the earth open and gulp her 
down, 

And Braddock’s army was done so 
brown, 

Left without a scalp to its crown. 

It was on the terrible Earthquake-day 
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss 
shay. 


Poems for Children 


508 

Now in building of chaises, I tell you 
what, 

There is always somewhere a weakest 
spot,— 

In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, 

In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill, 

I 11 screw, bolt, thoroughbrace,—lurk¬ 
ing still, 

Find it somewhere you must and 
will,— 

Above or below, or within or with¬ 
out,— 

And that’s the reason, beyond a 
doubt, 

That a chaise breaks down, but 
doesn’t wear out. 

But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do, 

With an “I dew vum,” or an “I tell 
yeou”) 

He would build one shay to beat the 
taown 

’N’ the keounty ’n’ all the kentry 
raoun’; 

It should be so built that it coiddn’ 
break daown: 

“Fur,” said the Deacon, “ ’t’s 
mighty plain 

Thut the weakes’ place mus’ stan’ the 
strain; 

’N’ the way t’ fix it, uz I maintain, 

Is only jest 

T’ make that place uz strong uz the 
rest.” 

So the Deacon inquired of the village 
folk 

Where he could find the strongest oak, 

That couldn’t be split nor bent nor 
broke,— 

That was for spokes and floor and 
sills; 

He sent for lancewood to make the 
thills; 

The crossbars were ash, from the 
straightest trees, 


The panels of white-wood, that cuts 
like cheese, 

But lasts like iron for things like 
these; 

The hubs of logs from the “Settler’s 
ellum, ’ ’— 

Last of its timber,—they couldn’t sell 
’em, 

Never an axe had seen their chips, 
And the wedges flew from between 
their lips, 

Their blunt ends frizzled like celery- 
tips; 

Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, 
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, 
Steel of the finest, bright and blue; 
Thoroughbrace bison-skin, thick and 
wide; 

Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide 
Found in the pit when the tanner 
died. 

That was the way he “put her 
through. ’ ’ 

“There!” said the Deacon, “naow 
she’ll dew!” 

Do! I tell you, I rather guess 
She was a wonder, and nothing less! 
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray, 
Deacon and deaconess dropped away, 
Children and grandchildren—where 
were they? 

But there stood the stout old one-hoss 
shay 

As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake- 
day! 

Eighteen hundred ;—it came and 
found 

The Deacon’s masterpiece strong and 
sound. 

Eighteen hundred increased by ten; 
“Hahnsum kerridge” they called it 
then. 

Eighteen hundred and twenty came;—■ 
Running as usual; much the same. 


Miscellaneous 


Thirty and Forty at last arrive, 

And then come Fifty, and Fifty-five. 

Little of all we value here 

Wakes on the morn of its hundredth 
year 

Without both feeling and looking 
queer. 

In fact, there’s nothing that keeps its 
youth, 

So far as I know, but a tree and 
truth. 

(This is a moral that runs at large; 

Take it.—You’re welcome.—No extra 
charge.) 

First of November, —the Earth¬ 
quake-day,— 

There are traces of age in the one-hoss 
shay. 

A general flavor of mild decay, 

But nothing local, as one may say. 

There couldn’t be,—for the Deacon’s 
art 

Had made it so like in every part 

That there wasn’t a chance for one to 
start. 

For the wheels were just as strong as 
the thills, 

And the floor was just as strong as 
the sills, 

And the panels just as strong as the 
floor, 

And the whipple-tree neither less nor 
more, 

And the back-crossbar as strong as the 
fore, 

And spring and axle and hub encore. 

And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt 

In another hour it will be ivorn out! 

First of November, Fifty-five! 

This morning the parson takes a drive. 

Now, small boys, get out of the way! 

Here comes the wonderful one-hoss 
shay, 


509 

Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked 
bay. 

“Huddup!” said the parson.—Off 
went they. 

The parson was working his Sunday’s 
text,— 

Had got to fifthly, and stopped per¬ 
plexed 

At what the—Moses—was coming 
next. 

All at once the horse stood still, 

Close by the meet’n’-house on the hill; 

First a shiver, and then a thrill, 

Then something decidedly like a 
spill,— 

And the parson was sitting upon a 
rock, 

At half-past nine by the meet ’n ’-house 
clock,— 

Just the hour of the Earthquake 
shock! 

What do you think the parson found, 

When he got up and stared around ? 

The poor old chaise in a heap or 
mound, 

As if it had been to the mill and 
ground! 

You see, of course, if you’re not a 
dunce, 

How it went to pieces all at once,— 

All at once, and nothing first,— 

Just as bubbles do when they burst. 

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay. 

Logic is logic. That’s all I say. 

Oliver Wendell Holmes. 


OLD GRIMES. 

f 

Old Grimes is dead; that good old 
man 

We never shall see more: 

He used to wear a long black coat, 

All buttoned down before. 


5 10 


Poems for Children 


Ilis heart was open as the day, 

His feelings all were true; 

His hair was some inclined to gray— 
He wore it in a queue. 

Whene’er he heard the voice of pain, 
His breast with pity burned; 

The large, round head upon his cane 
From ivory was turned. 

Kind words he ever had for all; 

He knew no base design: 

His eyes were dark and rather small, 
His nose was aquiline. 

He lived at peace with all mankind, 

In friendship he was true; 

His coat had pocket-holes behind, 

His pantaloons were blue. 

Unharmed, the sin which earth pol¬ 
lutes 

He passed securely o’er, 

And never wore a pair of boots 
For thirty years or more. 

But good old Grimes is now at rest, 
Nor fears misfortune’s frown: 

He wore a double-breasted vest— 

The stripes ran up and down. 

He modest merit sought to find, 

And pay it its desert: 

He had no malice in his mind, 

No ruffles on his shirt. 

His neighbors he did not abuse— 

Was sociable and gay: 

He wore large buckles on his shoes, 
And changed them every day. 

His knowledge, hid from public gaze, 
He did not bring to view, 

Nor made a noise, town-meeting days, 
As many people do. 


His worldly goods he never threw 

In trust to fortune’s chances, 

But lived (as all his brothers do) 

In easy circumstances. 

Thus undisturbed by anxious cares, 

His peaceful moments ran; 

And everybody said he was 

A fine old gentleman. 

Albert Gorton Greene. 

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY 
CHURCHYARD. 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting 
day, 

The lowing herds wind slowly o’er 
the lea, 

The ploughman homeward plods his 
weary way, 

And leaves the world to darkness 
and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape 
on the sight, 

And all the air a solemn stillness 
holds, 

Save where the beetle wheels his 
droning flight, 

And drowsy tinklings lull the dis¬ 
tant folds. 

Save that from yonder ivj^-mantled 
tower, 

The moping owl does to the moon 
complain 

Of such as, wandering near her secret 
bower, 

Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew 
tree’s shade, 

Where heaves the turf in many a 
mouldering heap, 

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, 

The rude forefathers of the hamlet 
sleep. 


Miscellaneous ci 1 


The breezy call of incense-breathing 
morn, 

The swallow twittering from the 
straw-built shed, 

The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echo¬ 
ing horn, 

No more shall rouse them from their 
lowly bed. 

For them no more the blazing hearth 
shall burn, 

Or busy housewife ply her evening 
care: 

No children run to lisp their sire’s 
return, 

Or climb his knees the envied kiss 
to share. 

Oft did the harvest to their sickle 
yield, 

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe 
has broke; 

How jocund did they drive their team 
a-field! 

How bowed the woods beneath their 
sturdy stroke! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful 
toil, 

Their homely joys, and destiny ob¬ 
scure ; 

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful 
smile 

The short and simple annals of the 
poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of 
power, 

And all that beauty, all that wealth 
ere gave, 

Await alike the inevitable hour:— 

The paths of glory lead but to the 
grave. 

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these 
the fault, 

If Memory o’er their tomb no 
trophies raise, 


Where through the long-drawn aisle 
and fretted vault 

The pealing anthem swells the note 
of praise. 

Can storied urn or animated bust 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting 
breath ? 

Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent 
dust, 

Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear 
of Death? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with 
celestial fire; 

Hands that the rod of empire might 
have swayed, 

Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre. 

But knowledge to their eyes her ample 
page 

Rich with the spoils of time did 
ne ’er unroll; 

Chill Penury repressed their noble 
rage, 

And froze the genial current of the 
soul. 

Full many a gem, of purest ray 
serene, 

The dark unfathomed caves of ocean 
bear: 

Full many a flower is born to blush 
unseen, 

And waste its sweetness on the 
desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that with 
dauntless breast 

The little tyrant of his fields with¬ 
stood ; 

Some mute inglorious Milton here 
may rest, 

Some Cromwell guiltless of his 
country’s blood. 


Poems for Children 


5 12 

The applause of listening senates to 
command, 

The threats of pain and ruin to 
despise, 

To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land, 

And read their history in a nation’s 
eyes. 

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed 
alone 

Their growing virtues, but their 
crimes confined; 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to 
a throne, 

And shut the gates of mercy on 
mankind; 

The struggling pangs of conscious 
truth to hide, 

To quench the blushes of ingenuous 
shame, 

Or heap the shrine of Luxury and 
Pride, 

With incense kindled at the Muse’s 
flame. 

Far from the madding crowd’s ig¬ 
noble strife 

Their sober wishes never learned to 
stray, 

Along the cool sequestered vale of life 

They kept the noiseless tenor of 
their way. 

Yet even these bones from insult to 
protect, 

Some frail memorial still erected 
nigh, 

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless 
sculpture decked 

Implores the passing tribute of a 
sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by the 
unlettered Muse, 

The place of fame and elegy supply: 


And many a holy text around she 
strews, 

That teach the rustic moralist to 
die. 

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a 
prey, 

This pleasing anxious being e’er 
resigned, 

Left the warm precincts of the cheer¬ 
ful day, 

Nor cast one longing, lingering look 
behind ? 

On some fond breast the parting soul 
relies, 

Some pious drops the closing eye 
requires; 

Even from the tomb the voice of na¬ 
ture cries, 

Even in our ashes live their wonted 
fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of the un¬ 
honoured dead, 

Dost in these lines their artless tale 
relate; 

If chance, by lonely Contemplation 
led, 

Some kindred spirit shall inquire 
thy fate; 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may 
say, 

“0ft, have we seen him at the peep 
of dawn 

Brushing with hasty steps the dews 
away, 

To meet the sun upon the upland 
lawn. 

i 1 There, at the foot of yonder nodding 
beech, 

That wreathes its old fantastic roots 
so high, 


Miscellaneous 


His listless length at noontide would 
he stretch, 

And pore upon the brook that 
babbles by. 

“Hard by yon wood, now smiling as 
in scorn, 

Muttering his wayward fancies he 
would rove; 

Now drooping, woeful, wan, like one 
forlorn, 

Or crazed with care, or crossed in 
hopeless love. 

‘‘ One morn I missed him on the ’cus- 
tomed hill, 

Along the heath and near his fa¬ 
vourite tree; 

Another came; nor yet beside the rill, 

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood 
was he; 

The next, with dirges due in sad 
array 

Slow through the church-way path 
we saw him borne; 

Approach and read (for thou canst 
read) the lay 

Graved on the stone beneath yon 
aged thorn.” 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here rests his head upon the lap of 
Earth, 

A Youth, to Fortune and to Fame 
unknown; 

Fair Science frowned not on his hum¬ 
ble birth, 

And Melancholy marked him for 
her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul 
sincere, 

Heaven did a recompense as largely 
send: 


5»3 

He gave to Misery all he had, a tear, 
He gained from Heaven (’twas all 
he wished) a friend. 

No farther seek his merits to disclose, 
Or draw his frailties from their 
dread abode 

(There they alike in trembling hope 
repose), 

The bosom of his Father and his 
God. 

Thomas Gray. 

BREAK, BREAK, BREAK. 

Break, break, break, 

On thy cold gray stones, 0 Sea! 

And I would that my tongue could 
utter 

The thoughts that arise in me. 

0 well for the fisherman’s boy, 

That he shouts with his sister at 
play! 

O well for the sailor lad, 

That he sings in his boat on the 
bay! 

And the stately ships go on 
To their haven under the hill; 

But 0 for the touch of a vanish’d 
hand, 

And the sound of a voice that is 
still. 

Break, break, break, 

At the foot of thy crags, 0 Sea! 

But the tender grace of a day that is 
dead 

Will never come back to me. 

Alfred Tennyson . 

A FAREWELL. 

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea, 
Thy tribute wave deliver; 

No more by thee my steps shall be, 
For ever and for ever. 


5'4 


Poems for Children 


Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea, 

A rivulet then a river; 

Nowhere by thee my steps shall be, 
For ever and for ever. 

But here will sigh thine alder tree, 
And here thine aspen shiver; 

And here by thee will hum the bee 
For ever and for ever. 

A thousand suns will stream on thee, 
A thousand moons will quiver; 

But not by thee my steps shall be, 
For ever and for ever. 

Alfred Tennyson. 


RING OUT WILD BELLS. 

Ring out wild bells to the wild sky, 
The flying cloud, the frosty light; 
The year is dying in the night; 
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 

Ring out the old, ring in the new, 
Ring, happy bells, across the snow; 
The year is going, let him go; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Ring out the grief that saps the mind 
For those that here we see no more; 
Ring out the feud of rich and poor, 
Ring in redress to all mankind. 

Ring out a slowly dying cause, 

And ancient forms of party strife; 
Ring in the nobler modes of life, 
With sweeter manners, purer laws. 

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, 
The faithless coldness of the times; 
Ring out, ring out my mournful 
rhymes, 

But ring the fuller minstrel in. 


Ring out false pride in place and 
blood, 

The civic slander and the spite; 
Ring in the love of truth and right, 
Ring in the common love of good. 

Ring out old shapes of foul disease, 
Ring out the narrowing lust of 
gold; 

Ring out the thousand wars of old, 
Ring in the thousand years of peace. 

Ring in the valiant man and free, 

The larger heart, the kindlier hand; 
Ring out the darkness of the land, 
Ring in the Christ that is to be. 

Alfred Tennyson. 


THE WORLD IS TOO MUCH 
WITH US. 

The world is too much with us; late 
and soon, 

Getting and spending, we lay waste 
our powers: 

Little we see in Nature that is ours; 

We have given our hearts away, a sor¬ 
did boon! 

This sea that bares her bosom to the 
moon, 

The winds that will be howling at all 
hours, 

And are up-gathered now like sleep¬ 
ing flowers; 

For this, for everything, we are out of 
tune; 

It moves us not.—Great God! I’d 
rather be 

A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; 

So might I, standing on this pleasant 
lea, 

Have glimpses that would make me 
less forlorn; 


Miscellaneous 


Have sight of Proteus rising from the 
sea; 

Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed 
horn. 

William Wordsworth. 

SONNET COMPOSED UPON 
WESTMINSTER BRIDGE. 

September 3, 1802. 

Earth has not anything to show more 
fair: 

Dull would he be of soul who could 
pass by 

A sight so touching in its majesty: 
This City now doth, like a garment, 
wear 

The beauty of the morning; silent, 
bare, 

Ships, towers, domes, theaters, and 
temples lie 

Open unto the fields, and to the sky; 
All bright and glittering in the smoke¬ 
less air. 

Never did sun more beautifully steep 
In his first splendor, valley, rock, or 
hill; 

Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so 
deep! 

The river glideth at his own sweet 
will: 

Dear God! the very houses seem 
asleep; 

And all that mighty heart is lying 
still! 

William Wordsworth. 

THE INVITATION. 

Best and brightest, come away,— 
Fairer far than this fair Day, 
Which, like thee, to those in sorrow 
Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow 
To the rough year just awake 
In its cradle on the brake. 

The brightest hour of unborn Spring 
Through the winter wandering, 
Found, it seems, the halcyon morn 


5*5 

To hoar February born; 

Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth, 
It kiss’d the forehead of the earth, 
And smiled upon the silent sea, 

And bade the frozen streams be free, 
And waked to music all their foun¬ 
tains, 

And breathed upon the frozen moun¬ 
tains, 

And like the prophetess of May 
Strew’d flowers upon the barren way, 
Making the wintry world appear 
Like one on whom thou smilest, dear. 

Away, away, from men and towns, 
To the wild wood and the downs— 

To the silent wilderness 
Where the soul need not repress 
Its music, lest it should not find 
An echo in another’s mind, 

While the touch of Nature’s art 
Harmonizes heart to heart. 

Radiant Sister of the Day 
Awake! arise! and come away! 

To the wild woods and the plains, 

To the pools where winter rains 
Image all their roofs of leaves, 

Where the pine its garland weaves 
Of sapless green, and ivy dun, 

Round stems that never kiss the sun; 
Where the lawns and pastures be 
And the sandhills of the sea; 

Where the melting hoar-frost wets 
The daisy-star that never sets, 

And wind-flowers and violets 
Which yet join not scent to hue 
Crown the pale year weak and new; 
When the night is left behind 
In the deep east, dim and blind, 

And the blue moon is over us, 

And the multitudinous 
Billows murmur at our feet, 

Where the earth and ocean meet, 
And all things seem only one 
In the universal Sun. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 



5 16 


Poems for Children 


A THING OF BEAUTY. 

(From Endymion.) 

A thing of beauty is a joy forever: 

Its love increases; it will never 

Pass into nothingness; but still will 
keep 

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep 

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and 
quiet breathing. 

Therefore, on every morrow, we are 
wreathing 

A flowery band to bind us to the 
earth, 

Spite of despondence, of the inhuman 
dearth 

Of noble natures, of the gloomy days, 

Of all the unhealthy and o’er-dark- 
en’d ways 

Made for our searching: yea, in spite 
of all, 

Some shape of beauty moves away the 

pall 

From our dark spirits. Such the sun, 
the moon, 

Trees old and young, sprouting a 
shady boon 

For simple sheep; and such are daffo¬ 
dils 

With the green world they live in; 
and clear rills 

That for themselves a cooling covert 
make 

’Gainst the hot season; the mid forest 
brake, 

Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk- 
rose blooms: 

And such too is the grandeur of the 
dooms 

We have imagined for the mighty 
dead; 

All lovely tales that we have heard or 
read: 

An endless fountain of immortal 
drink, 

Pouring into us from the heaven’s 
brink. 


WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY. 

To thee, fair freedom! I retire 

From flattery, cards, and dice, and 
din; 

Nor art thou found in mansions 
higher 

Than the low cot, or humble inn. 

’Tis here with boundless power I 
reign; 

And every health which I begin, 

Converts dull port to bright cham¬ 
pagne ; 

Such freedom crowns it, at an inn. 

I fly from pomp, I fly from plate! 

I fly from falsehood’s specious grin! 

Freedom I love, and form I hate, 

And choose my lodgings at an inn. 

Here, waiter! take my sordid ore, 

Which lackeys else might hope to 
win; 

It buys, what courts have not in store; 

It buys me freedom at an inn. 

Whoe’er has traveled life’s dull 
round, 

Where’er his stages may have been, 

May sigh to think he still has found 

The warmest welcome, at an inn. 

William Shenstone. 

THE DEAREST POETS. 

Were I to name, out of the times 
gone by, 

The poets dearest to me, I should say, 

Pulci for spirits, and a fine, free way; 

Chaucer for manners, and close, silent 
eye; 

Milton for classic taste, and harp 
strung high; 

Spenser for luxury, and sweet, sylvan 
play; 

Horace for chatting with, from day to 
day; 


John Keats . 


Miscellaneous 


Shakespeare for all, but most, society. 
But which take with me, could I take 
but one? 

Shakespeare,—as long as I was un¬ 
oppressed 

With the world’s weight, making sad 
thoughts intenser; 

But did I wish, out of the common sun 
To lay a wounded heart in leafy rest, 
And dream of things far off and heal¬ 
ing,—Spenser. 

Leigh Hunt. 

TWILIGHT AT SEA. 

The twilight hours, like birds, flew by, 
As lightly and as free, 

Ten thousand stars were in the sky, 
Ten thousand on the sea; 

For every wave, with dimpled face, 
That leaped upon the air, 

Had caught a star in its embrace, 

And held it trembling there. 

Amelia Coppuck Welby. 


NATURE. 

0 nature! I do not aspire 
To be the highest in thy choir,— 

To be a meteor in thy sky, 

Or comet that may range on high; 
Only a zephyr that may blow 
Among the reeds by the river low; 
Give me thy most privy place 
Where to run my airy race. 

In some withdrawn, unpublic mead 
Let me sigh upon a reed, 

Or in the woods, with leafy din, 
Whisper the still evening in: 

Some still work give me to do,— 
Only—be it near to you! 

For IVI rather be thy child 
And pupil, in the forest wild. 


517 

Than be the king of men elsewhere, 
And most sovereign slave of care; 

To have one moment of thy dawn, 
Than share the city’s year forlorn. 

Henry David Thorcau. 

SPRING SONG IN THE CITY. 

Who remains in London, 

I 11 the streets with me, 

Now that Spring is blowing 
Warm winds from the sea; 

Now that trees grow green and tall, 
Now the sun shines mellow, 

And with moist primroses all 
English lanes are yellow? 

Little barefoot maiden, 

Selling violets blue, 

Hast thou ever pictured 
Where the sweetlings grew? 

Oh, the warm wild woodland ways, 
Deep in dewy grasses, 

Where the wind-blown: shadow strays, 
Scented as it passes! 

Peddler breathing deeply, 

Toiling into town, 

With the dusty highway 
You are dusky brown; 

Hast thou seen by daisied leas, 

And by rivers flowing, 
Lilac-ringlets which the breeze 
Loosens lightly blowing? 

Out of yonder wagon 
Pleasant hay-scents float, 

He who drives it carries 
A daisy in his coat: 

Oh, the English meadows, fair 
Far beyond all praises! 

Freckled orchids everywhere 
Mid the snow of daisies! 


5 1 B Poems for Children 

Now in busy silence Sorely throb my feet, a-tramping 

Broods the nightingale, London highways, 

Choosing his love’s dwelling (Ah! the springy moss upon a 

In a dimpled dale; northern moor!) 

Hound the leafy bower they raise Through the endless streets, the 

Rose-trees wild are springing; gloomy squares and byways, 

Underneath, through the green haze, Homeless in the City, poor among 

Bounds the brooklet singing. the floor! 


And his love is silent 
As a bird can be, 

For the red buds only 
Fill the red rose-tree; 

Just as buds and blossoms blow 
He’ll begin his tune, 

When all is green and roses glow 
Underneath the moon. 

Nowhere in the valleys 
Will the wind be still, 

Everything is waving, 

Wagging at his will: 

Blows the milkmaid’s kirtle clean 
With her hand pressed on it; 

Lightly o’er the hedge so green 
Blows the plowboy’s bonnet. 

Oh, to be a-roaming 
In an English dell! 

Every nook is wealthy, 

All the world looks well, 

Tinted soft the Heavens glow, 
Over Earth and Ocean, 

Waters flow, breezes blow, 

All is light and motion! 

Robert Buchanan. 

IN CITY STREETS. 

Yonder in the heather there’s a bed 
for sleeping, 

Drink for one athirst, ripe black¬ 
berries to eat; 

Yonder in the sun the merry hares go 
leaping, 

And the pool is clear for travel- 
wearied feet. 


London streets are gold—ah, give me 
leaves a-glinting 

’Midst gray dikes and hedges in the 
autumn sun! 

London water’s wine, poured out for 
all unstinting— 

God! For the little brooks that 
tumble as they run! 

Oh, my heart is fain to hear the soft 
wind blowing, 

Soughing through the fir-tops up 
on northern fells! 

Oh, my eye’s an ache to see the brown 
burns flowing 

Through the peaty soil and tinkling 
heather-bells. 

Ada Smith. 

THE SONG MY PADDLE SINGS. 

West wind, blow from your prairie 
nest, 

Blow from the mountains, blow from 
the west. 

The sail is idle, the sailor too; 

O wind of the west, we wait for you! 

Blow, blow! 

I have wooed you so, 

But never a favor you bestow. 

You rock your cradle the hills be¬ 
tween, 

But scorn to notice my white lateen. 

I stow the sail and unship the mast: 

I wooed you long, but my wooing’s 
past; 

My paddle will lull you into rest: 

0 drowsy wind of the drowsy west, 


Miscellaneous 


5 l 9 


Sleep, sleep! 

By your mountains steep, 

Or down where the prairie grasses 
sweep, 

Now fold in slumber your laggard 
wings, 

For soft is the song my paddle sings. 

Be strong, 0 paddle! be brave, canoe! 
The reckless waves you must plunge 
into. 

Reel, reel, 

On your trembling keel, 

But never a fear my craft will feel. 

We’ve raced the rapids; we’re far 
ahead: 

The river slips through its silent bed. 
Sway, sway, 

As the bubbles spray 

And fall in tinkling tunes away. 

And up on the hills against the sky, 

A fir tree rocking its lullaby 
Swings, swings, 

Its emerald wings, 

Swelling the song that my paddle 
sings. 

E. Pauline Johnson. 


THE QUIET LIFE. 

What pleasure have great princes 
More dainty to their choice 
Than herdsmen wild, who careless 
In quiet life rejoice, 

And fortune’s fate not fearing 
Sing sweet in summer morning? 

Their dealings plain and rightful, 

Are void of all deceit; 

They never know how spiteful 
It is to kneel and wait 
On favorite, presumptuous, 

Whose pride is vain and sumpt\ ous. 


All day their flocks each tendeth; 
At night, they take their rest; 
More quiet than who sendeth 
His ship unto the East, 

Where gold and pearl are plenty; 
Bufcgetting, very dainty. 

For lawyers and their pleading, 
They \steem it not a straw; 

They think that honest meaning 
Is of itself a law: 

Whence conscience judgeth plainly, 
They spend no money vainly. 

O happy who thus liveth! 

Not caring much for gold; 

With clothing which sufficeth 
To keep him from the cold. 

Though poor and plain his diet 
Yet merry it is, and quiet. 

William Byrd. 


A STRIP OF BLUE. 

I do not own an inch of land, 

But all I see is mine,— 

The orchards and the mowing-fields, 
The lawns and gardens fine. 

The winds my tax-collectors are, 

They bring me tithes divine,— 

Wild scents and subtle essences, 

A tribute rare and free; 

And, more magnificent than all, 

My window keeps for me 
A glimpse of blue immensity,— 

A little strip of sea. 

Richer am I than he who owns 
Great fleets and argosies; 

I have a share in every ship 
Won by the inland breeze 
To loiter on yon airy road 
Above the apple-trees. 

I freight them with my untold 
dreams; 

Each bears my own picked crew; 


Poems for Children 


520 

And nobler cargoes wait for them 
Than ever India knew,— 

My ships that sail into the East 
Across that outlet blue. 


Sometimes they seem like living 
shapes,— 

The people of the sky,— 

Guests in white raiment coming down 
Prom Heaven, which is close by; 

I call them by familiar names, 

As one by one draws nigh, 

So white, so light, so spirit-like, 

From violet mists they bloom! 

The aching wastes of the unknown 
Are half reclaimed from gloom, 
Since on life’s hospitable sea 
All souls find sailing-room. 

The ocean grows a weariness 
With nothing else in sight; 

Its east and west, its north and south, 
Spread out from morn to night; 

We miss the warm, caressing shore, 
Its brooding shade and light. 

A part is greater than the whole; 

By hints are mysteries told. 

The fringes of eternity,— 

God’s sweeping garment-fold, 

In that bright shred of glittering sea, 
I reach out for, and hold. 

The sails, like flakes of roseate pearl, 
Float in upon the mist; 

The waves are broken precious 
stones,— 

Sapphire and amethyst, 

Washed from celestial basement walls 
By suns unsetting kissed. 

Out through the utmost gates of space, 
Past where the gray stars drift, 

To the widening Infinite, my soul 
Glides on, a vessel swift; 

Yet loses not her anchorage 
In yonder azure rift. 


Here sit I, as a little child: 

The threshold of God’s door 
Is that clear band of chrysoprase; 

Now the vast temple floor, 

The blinding glory of the dome 
I bow my head before: 

Thy universe, 0 God, is home, 

In height or depth, to me; 

Yet here upon thy footstool green 
Content am I to be; 

Glad, when is opened unto my need 
Some sea-like glimpse of Thee. 

Lucy Larcom. 

THE COUNTRY FAITH, 

Here in the country’s heart, 

Where the grass is green, 

Life is the same sweet life 
As it e’er hath been. 

Trust in a God still lives, 

And the bell at morn 
Floats with a thought of God 
0 ’er the rising corn. 

God comes down in the rain, 

And the crop grows tall— 

This is the country faith 
And best of all! 

Norman Gale. 

SHAKESPEARE. 

Others abide our question. Thou art 
free. 

We ask and ask—Thou smilest and 
art still, 

Out-topping knowledge. For the lofti¬ 
est hill, 

Who to the stars uncrowns his 
majesty, 

Planting his steadfast footsteps in the 
sea, 

Making the heaven of heavens his 
dwelling-place, 


Miscellaneous 


5 21 


Spares but the cloudy border of his 
base 

To the foiled searching of mortality; 

And thou, who didst the stars and 
sunbeams know, 

Self-schooled, self-scanned, self-hon¬ 
ored, self-secure, 

Didst tread on earth unguessed at.— 
Better so! 

All pains the immortal spirit must 
endure, 

All weakness which impairs, all griefs 
which bow, 

Find their sole speech in that victori¬ 
ous brow. 

Matthew Arnold. 


ON THE PORTRAIT OF SHAKES¬ 
PEARE PREFIXED TO THE 
FIRST FOLIO EDITION, 1623. 

This figure, that thou here seest put, 
It was for gentle Shakespeare cut; 
Wherein the Graver had a strife 
With Nature to outdo the life: 

0, could he but have drawn his wit 
As well in brass, as he hath hit 
His face; the Print would then sur¬ 
pass 

All that was ever writ in brass. 

But since he cannot, Reader, look 
Not at- his picture, but his book. 

Ben Jonson. 


REQUIEM. 

Under the wide and starry sky 
Dig the grave and let me lie. 

Glad did I live and gladly die, 

And I laid me down with a will. 

This be the verse you grave for me: 
Here he lies where he longed to be; 
Home is the sailor, home from sea, 
And the hunter home from the 
hill . 


Robert Louis Stevenson . 


Index of Authors 


Addison, Joseph 

Spacious Firmament on High, The.. 456 


Barbaued, Anna Letitia 
Doll’s House, The...., 


94 


Aikin, Lucy 

Which Way Does the Wind Blow... 203 
Ainseee, Hew 

Ingle-Side, The. 235 

Alexander, Cecil Frances 

Burial of Moses, The.469 

Creation, The. 455 

Evening Hymn. 473 

Evening Song . 471 

Little Sister Left in Charge, The.... 50 

Morning Hymn . 453 

Once in Royal David’s City. 462 

Saw Ye Never in the Meadows. 469 

Aleord, Henry 

Gypsy Girl, The. 447 

Allingham, William 

Bird, The . 267 

Fairies, The . 146 

Robin Redbreast . 138 

Wild Rose . 218 

Windlass Song . 360 

Winny .434 

Wishing.217 

Alma-Tadema, Laurence 

If No One Ever Marries Me. 100 

Playgrounds . 44 

Strange Lands. 19 

Arnold, Sir Edwin 

Almond Blossom . 218 


Barham, Richard Harris (Thomas In- 


goldsby) 

Jackdaw of Rheims, The. 299 

Baring-Gould, Sabine 

Now the Day is Over. 471 

Onward, Christian Soldiers.. 467 

Barnseield, Richard 
Nightingale, The. 272 

Barr, Matthias 

Moon, So Round and Yellow. 139 

Only a Baby Small. 14 

Barton, Bernard 

Squirrel, The. 264 

Bayly, Thomas Haynes 
Oh! Where Do Fairies Hide Their 
Heads?. 148 

Beaumont, Francis and Fletcher, John 
Folding the Flocks. 211 


Beddoes, Thomas Lovell 
To Sea! To Sea!. 


Beeching, Henry Charles 
Going Down Hill on a Bicycle. 43 

Bennett, William Cox 

Baby May. 241 

Cricket, To a. 252 

Lullaby, O Lullaby. 109 

Summer Invocation, A. 198 


Arnold, Matthew 
Forsaken Merman, The 
Shakespeare . 

“Aunt Eeeie” 
Water-Mill, The. 

BailliE, Joanna 

Good-Morning. 

Good-Night . 

Outlaw’s Song, The.... 


Bird, Robert 

481 Fairy Folk, The. 

^ 20 Blake, William 

Another’s Sorrow, On 

57 Blossom, The. 

Echoing Green, The.. 

Fly, The. 

179 Holy Thursday . 

182 How Sweet I Roamed 

430 Infant Joy. 


157 


487 
212 
231 
255 

488 
487 

12 





















































Index of Authors 


5 2 3 


Lamb, The . 32 

Laughing Song. 476 

Night . 181 

Nurse’s Song. 478 

Piper, The . 474 

Shepherd, The . 210 

Sleep, Sleep, Beauty Bright. 109 

Spring . 196 

Sweet Dreams Form a Shade. 109 

Tiger, The. 266 

Blunt, Wilfred Scawen 
Gibraltar . 362 

Borer, George Henry 
To England . 319 

Bostwick, Helen Louise Barron 
Little Dandelion . 61 


Bourdillon, Francis William 
Night Has a Thousand Eyes, The... 490 

Brewer, Ebenezer Cobham 
Little Things . 50 

Bronte, Emily Jane 

Bluebell, The . 219 

Linnet in the Rocky Dells, The.422 

Brooke, Stopeord Augustus 
Earth and Man, The. 497 

Brooks, Elbridge S. 

Rodney’s Ride... 378 

Brooks, Phillips 

Everywhere, Everywhere Christmas 

To-night . 458 

O Little Town of Bethlehem. 459 

Browne, William 

Rose, The . 226 

Browning, Elizabeth Barrett 

Child’s Thought of God, A.456 

My Doves . 271 

Portrait, A . 443 

Romance of the Swan’s Nest, The.. 408 
Sea-Mew, The . 284 

Browning, Robert 

Boy and the Angel, The . 493 

Herve Riel . 4°9 

Home Thoughts from Abroad. 325 

Home Thoughts from the Sea. 326 

How They Brought the Good News 

from Ghent to Aix . 35 2 

Incident of the French Camp. 351 

Pied Piper of Hamelin, The. 293 

Pippa’s Song . 97 


Bruce, Michael 

Ode to the Cuckoo. 272 

Bryant, William Cullen 

Death of the Flowers, The.227 

Fringed Gentian, To the. 223 

Gladness of Nature, The. 184 

Hymn to the North Star. 182 

March. 196 

New Moon, The. 198 

Water Fowl, To a.284 

Buchanan, Robert William 

Spring Song in the City.517 

Bunner, Henry CuylEr 
One, Two, Three . 106 

Bunyan, John 

Pilgrim, The . 498 

Shepherd Boy’s Song. 211 

Burns, Robert 

Bruce to His Army. 342 

Chloe . 449 

For A’ That, and A’ That. 321 

I Love My Jean . 449 

John Anderson . 489 

Mountain Daisy, To a. 221 

Mouse, To a. 249 

My Heart’s in the Highlands. 343 

My Nannie’s Awa’. 449 

O Mally’s Meek, Mally’s Sweet.448 

Rosebud, A. 216 

Up in the Morning Early. 193 

Wounded Hare, The. 262 

Butts, Mary Frances 

Wild Winds . 203 

Winter Night. 203 

Byers, Samuel Hawkins Marshall 
Song of Sherman’s March to the Sea 364 

Byrd, William 

Quiet Life, The. 519 

Byron, George Gordon (Sixth Lord Byron) 
Destruction of Sennacherib, The.... 323 
Eve of the Battle of Waterloo, The.. 337 

Evening . 180 

Isles of Greece, The. 322 

Pleasant Things . 232 

She Walks in Beauty. 450 

Vision of Belshazzar, The.462 

Campbell, Thomas 

Battle of Hohenlinden, The. 349 

Battle of the Baltic, The. 335 

Field Flowers . 218 

Lord Ullin’s Daughter.428 








































































5 2 4 


Index of Authors 


Parrot, The . 279 

Ye Mariners of England. 327 

Carew, Thomas 

Now that Winter’s Gone. 195 

Carlye, Jane Baieeie Weesh 
Swallow Building Under Our Eaves, 

To a. 274 

Carroee, Gewis (Charees Lutwidge Dodg- 
son) 

Gardener’s Song, The. 305 

Jabberwocky. 305 

Walrus and the Carpenter. 303 

Carter, Mrs. 

Nursery Song . 93 

Robin to His Mate, The. 94 


Collins, Wieuam 

How Sleep the Brave. 321 

Coeeins, Wieeiam 

Molly Maguire at Monmouth. 350 

Coeeyer, Robert 

Saxon Grit. 323 

Cook, Eeiza 

A. B. C. 174 

Death of Master Tommy Rook, The 40 

King Bruce and the Spider. 48 

Mouse and the Cake. 39 

Old Arm-Chair, The. 236 

Cooeidge, Susan (Sarah Chauncy Wool- 
sey) 

Bind-Weed . 225 

How the Reaves Came Down. 58 


Cary, Phoebe 

Leak in the Dike, The. 355 

Legend of the Northland, A. 28 

Chadwick, John W. 

King Edwin’s Eeast. 377 

Chatterton, Thomas 
Hymn for Christmas Day, A. 464 


Child, Lydia Maria 

Apple-Seed John. 166 

Thanksgiving Day . 74 

Who Stole the Bird’s Nest. 84 


Ceare, John 

My Early Home. 241 

Primrose, To a. 216 

Ceephane, Elizabeth Cecilia 
Lost Sheep, The. 461 


Coleridge, Hartley 

Lark and the Nightingale, The. 268 

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor 

Answer to a Child’s Question. 490 

Boy in the Wilderness, The. 474 

Child’s Evening Prayer. 473 

If I Had But Two Little Wings.499 

Kubla Khan . 502 

Raven, The . 162 

Rime of the Ancient Mariner, The.. 379 
Lip! Up! Ye Dames and Lasses Gay 229 

Coleridge, Sara 

Months, The . 194 


Cooper, George 

Baby-land . 18 

Come, Little Leaves. 88 

October’s Party. 65 

Twenty Froggies . 94 


Cornwall, Barry (Bryan Waller Proc¬ 


ter) 

Blood-Horse, The . 264 

Fate of the Oak, The. 224 

Horned Owl, The. 276 

Hunter’s Song, The. 228 

Sea, The . 354 

Stars, The . 183 

Stormy Petrel, The. 285 

Cowley, Abraham 

Grasshopper, The . 251 


Cowper, William 

Beau’s Reply . 

Boadicea . 

Chaffinch’s Nest at Sea, The. 

Columbriad, The . 

Cottager and His Landlord, The.... 

Cricket, The. 

Dispute Between Nose and Eyes_ 

Diverting History of John Gilpin, 

The . 

Epitaph, An . 

Jackdaw, The. 

Narcissus. 

Nightingale and Glow-Worm, The... 

Retired Cat, The. 

Snail, The. 

Spaniel Called “ Beau ” Killing a 
Young Bird, On a. 


260 


329 

283 

161 

161 

252 

177 


306 

261 

264 

222 

164 

259 

250 


260 


Collins; Mortimer 
My Thrush. 


Cranch, Christopher Pearse 
257 Bobolinks, The . 


280 
































































Index of Authors 


Cunningham, Aeeen 

Hame, Hame, Hame. 232 

Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea, A... 361 


Dana, Richard Henry 
Little Beach Bird, The. 261 

Davis, Thomas Osborne 

My Band. 333 


Deicker, Thomas 

Golden Slumbers Kiss Your Eyes... 112 


Dibden, Charees 

Tar For All Weathers, The. 362 

Dickinson, Emiey 

Bee, The . 253 

Chartless . 462 

Grass, The . 219 

Dobeee, Sydney Thompson 

Orphan’s Song, The. 498 

Procession of the Flowers, The. 195 

Domett, Aeered 

Christmas Hymn, A. 460 

Dougeas, Wieeiam of Feeugeand 
Annie Eaurie .427 

Drake, Joseph Rodman 

American Flag, The. 346 

Fairy in Armor, A. 147 

Drayton, Michaee 

Arming of Pigwiggen. 154 

Fine Day, A. 191 

Palace of the Fairies, The. 153 

Queen Mab’s Chariot. 1 5 1 

Drummond, Wieeiam, of Hawthornden 
Phyllis . 45 1 

Duncan, Mary Eundie 

Child’s Evening Prayer, A. 472 

Child’s Morning Prayer, A. 454 

My Eittle Brother . 12 

Shadows, The . 46 

Dyer, Sir Edward 

Contentment . 49 2 

Eden, Heeen Parry (Mrs. Denis) 

Eittle Girl, To a. 435 

Edwards, M. Betham 
Child’s Prayer, A. 47 2 

Eeeiott, Mary 

Crocus, The . 54 

Nest, The . 2 4 


5 2 5 


Oak, The. 54 

Silk Worms . 60 

What is Veal? . 25 

Emerson, Raeph Waedo 

Concord Hymn . 347 

Forbearance . 490 

Humble-Bee, The . 248 

Mountain and the Squirrel, The. 162 

Rhodora, The . 226 

Snowstorm, The . 193 

Fanshawe, Catherine Maria 
Riddle, A . 173 

Fawcett, Edgar 

Oriole, To an. 281 

Fieed, Eugene 

Jest ’Fore Christmas. 316 

Seein’ Things . 315 

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod. 113 

Fieeding, Henry 

A-Hunting We Will Go. 228 

Fitzgeraed, Edward 

Song of the Fire. 236 

Feagg, Wieson 

O’Eincon Family, The. 265 

Feetcher, John 

Evening Song . 180 

FoeeEn, Eeiza EEE 

Birdie . 24 

Little Boy’s Good-Night, The. 100 

Oh! Look at the Moon. 27 

Foster, Stephen Coeeins 
My Old Kentucky Home. 235 

FrerE, John Hookham 

Boy and the Parrot, The. 158 

Boy and His Top, The. 158 

Boy and the Wolf, The. 159 

Cavern Followed the Hut’s Advice, 

Showing How the. 160 

Cavern and the Hut, The. 159 

Piece of Glass and the Piece of Ice, 

The . 159 

Gaee, Norman 

Bartholomew . 13 

Country Faith, The. 520 

Gay, John 

Fox at the Point of Death, The. 168 

Lion and the Cub, The. 169 

Turkey and the Ant, The. 169 






























































Index of Authors 


526 

Gilbert, Sir Wileiam Schwenck 


Captain Reece . 286 

Goldsmith, Oeiver 

Country Parson, The. 245 

Deserted Village, The. 239 

Edwin and Angelina. 405 

Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog, 

An. 288 

Goued, Hannah Feagg 

Frost, The . 204 

Song of the Bees. 254 

Gray, Thomas 

Elegy Written in a Country Church¬ 
yard . 510 

Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat 288 

Greenaway, Kate 

Around the World. 144 

Happy Child, A. 145 

Tea-Party, A. 144 

Eamb, The . 145 

Greene, Aebert Gorton 
Old Grimes .509 

Grove, Eeiza 

Cat to Her Kittens, A. 30 

Dancing Lesson, The. 60 

Greedy Piggy that Ate too Fast, The 33 
Little Hobby-Horse, A. 33 

Hastings, Lady Feora 

Early Rising . 11 

Prayers . 454 

To a Butterfly. 30 

Hawkshawe, Ann 

Chorus of Frogs, The. 29 

Clocking Hen, The. 31 

Common Things. 26 

Dame Duck’s First Lecture on Edu¬ 
cation . 27 

Freddie and the Cherry Tree. 89 

Glow-Worms, The. 26 

Great Brown Owl, The. 26 

Little Rain-Drops . 48 

Muffin-Man’s Bell, The. 58 

Old Kitchen Clock, The. 59 

Pussy-Cat . 19 

Robin Redbreasts, The. 20 

Turtle-Dove’s Nest, The. 23 

Waves on the Sea-Shore, The. 24 

Young Linnets, The. 25 

Heber, Reginald 

Brightest and Best of the Sons of 
the Morning. 464 


From Greenland’s Icy Mountains.... 468 


Holy, Holy, Holy. 459 

Lo, the Lilies of the Field.460 

Son of God Goes Forth to War, The 455 

Hemans, Felicia Dorothea 

Birds of Passage, The. 273 

Casabianca . 333 

Fairies’ Recall, The. 157 

Hymn for Christmas. 454 

Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers, The 344 
Water-Lilies. 154 

Henley, William Ernest 
E ngland, My England. 328 

Herrick, Robert 

Beggar, to Mab the Fairy Queen, The 151 

Ceremonies for Christmas. 239 

Ceremony for Candlemas Day, A.... 237 

Charm, A . 150 

Charm, Another . 150 

Cherry Ripe .434 

Child’s Grace, A.455 

Daffodils, To . 223 

Going a-Maying . 214 

Hag, The . 155 

His Grange, or Private Wealth.233 

His Saviour, a Child, To. ..472 

Hock-Cart, The. 209 

Julia . 451 

Meadows, To. 213 

Night Piece, The. 451 

Oberon’s Feast . 152 

Ode on the Birth of Our Saviour, An 465 

Ternarie of Littles, A. 232 

Thanksgiving to God for His House, 

A . 468 

Violets . 215 

Heywood, Thomas 

Pack, Clouds, Away.. 495 

Hickson, William Edward 
T ry Again. 48 

Hinkson, Katharine Tynan 
C hanticleer . 285 

Hoefman, Charles Fenno 
M onterey. 354 

Hoffmann, Heinrich (“ Strewel Peter”) 
Story of Augustus, Who Would Not 
Have Any Soup. 77 

Hogg, James 

Boy’s Song, A. 209 

Skylark, The . 268 


Holland, Rupert Sargent 
Foolish Flowers . 







































































Index of Authors 


5 2 7 


Jack-in-the-Pulpit . 

P’s and Q’s . 

Secrets of Our Garden, The 

Teapot Dragon, The. 

When I Grow Up. 


99 

98 

99 
98 

100 


“Hogm, Saxe’* 

Song of Clover, A.225 

Hogmes, Ogiver Wendegg 

Chambered Nautilus, The. 499 

Deacon’s Masterpiece, or the Won¬ 
derful “ One-Hoss Shay,” The_507 


Insect, To an. 248 

Old Ironsides . 358 

Hood, Thomas 

Flowers . 226 

I Remember. 474 

Queen Mab. 98 

Ruth . 447 


Houghton, Lord ; Richard Monckton 


Mignes (First Baron Houghton) 

Good-Night and Good-Morning. 11 

Lady Moon. 68 

Our Mother Tongue. 322 

Howe, Jugia Ward 

Battle Hymn of the Republic. 348 

Howitt, Mary 

Barley-Mowers’ Song, The. 207 

Birds in Summer .„. 86 

Buttercups and Daisies. 217 

Cornfields . 207 

Fairies of the Caldon-Low, The. 155 

Father is Coming. 240 

Hawking Party in the Olden Time, A 230 

Humming-Bird, The . 282 

Lion, The . 265 

Marien Lee. 450 

Old Christmas. 237 

September. 199 

Spider and the Fly, The. 37 

Swinging Song, A.. 60 

True Story of Web-Spinner, The... 256 

Voice of Spring, The. 66 

Winter Fire, The.200 

Howitt, Wiggiam 

Northern Seas, The . 357 

Wind in a Frolic, The. 202 

Hunt, James Henry Leigh 
Abou Ben Adhem and the Angel.... 494 

Dearest Poets, The. 5*6 

Glove and the Lions, The. 4 2 9 

Grasshopper and the Cricket, To the 251 
Jaffar . 4 2 ^ 


Ingegow, Jean 

Long White Seam, The. 416 

Seven Times One. 87 

Seven Times Two. 478 

Jenner, Edward 

Signs of Rain. 189 

Johnson, E. Paugine 
Song my Paddle Sings, The.518 

Jon son, Ben 

Diana, To . 436 

Have You Seen a Bright Lily Grow 436 

Noble Nature, The. 491 

Portrait of Shakespeare, On the.... 521 
Queen Mab. 150 

Keats, John 

Daisy’s Song, The. 172 

December . 199 

Fairy Song. 149 

Grasshopper and the Cricket, The... 251 

I Had a Dove. 271 

I Stood Tiptoe Upon a Little Hill... 213 

La Belle Dame Sans Merci. 426 

Meg Merrilies . 479 

Mermaid Tavern, Lines on the. 500 

On First Looking Into Chapman’s 

Homer . 489 

Sweet Peas .216 

Thing of Beauty, A. 516 


Kebge, John 


Bathing .210 

Gardening . 214 

Noontide . 180 


Ken, Thomas 

Morning Hymn. 453 

Key, Francis Scott 

Star-Spangled Banner, The . 345 

Kingsgey, Charges 

Ballad of Earl Haldan’s Daughter... 401 

Farewell, A . 452 

Lost Doll, The. 88 

North-East Wind, The. 201 

Sands of Dee, The. 444 

Three Fishers, The. 486 

Young and Old. 498 

La Fontaine, Jean de 
The Castle Builder. 69 


Lamb, Charges 

Hester . 44 2 

Housekeeper, The . 250 

Names, The . 434 








































































528 Index of Authors 


Lamb, Mary Ann 

Choosing a Name. 12 

Lamb, Charges and Mary Ann 

Anger .. 47 

Beasts in the Tower, The. 61 

Breakfast . 84 

Cleanliness . 71 

Crumbs to the Birds. 21 

Dessert, The. 85 

Envy . 47 

First Tooth, The. 14 

Going Into Breeches. 68 

Magpie’s Nest, The. 160 

Neatness in Apparel. 70 

Orange, The. 91 

Peach, The . 91 

Which is the Favourite?. 89 

Landon, Letitia Eeizabeth 
W ind, The . 201 

Landor, Waeter Savage 
R ose Aylmer . 436 

Larcom, Lucy 

Brown Thrush, The. 92 

Strip of Blue, A. 519 

Lear, Edward 

Author of the Pobble, The. 291 

Courtship of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, 

The . 310 

Jumblies, The. 289 

Nonsense Verses, Five. 311 

Owl and the Pussycat, The. 302 

Pobble Who Has No Toes, The.... 290 

Lewis, Matthew Gregory 
A llan Water. 408 

Longeeeeow, Henry Wadsworth 

Arrow and the Song, The.476 

Children’s Hour, The. 80 

Excelsior. 491 

Home Song . 231 

Hymn to the Night. 182 

Light of Stars, The. 184 

My Lost Youth. 475 

Old Clock on the Stairs, The. 234 

Rain in Summer. 190 

St. Francis’ Sermon to the Birds.... 465 

Sir Humphrey Gilbert . 400 

Village Blacksmith, The. 246 

Wreck of the Hesperus, The. 398 

Lover, Samuei, 

Fairy Boy, The. 1.53 

Fairv Tempter, The. 153 


Loweee, James Russeee 

Brook in Winter, The. 192 

Fatherland, The . 3*9 

Fountain, The . 187 

Heritage, The . 3 J 8 

Singing Leaves, The. 369 

Sir Launfal and the Leper. 477 

Washington . 336 


Lyey, John 

By the Moon We Sport and Play... 149 
Macaueay, Thomas Babington (First 


Baron Macaulay) 

Armada, The . 33° 

Ivry. 326 

Macdonaed, George 

Baby . 13 

Little White Lily . 57 

Sir Lark and King Sun: A Parable.. 74 

What Christ Said. 470 

Wind and the Moon, The. 55 

Mackay, ChareEs 

Miller of the Dee, The. 489 

Mareowe, Christopher 
Shepherd to His Love, The. 479 


Marryat, Frederick 

Captain Stood on the Carronade, The 361 
Martin, Wieeiam 

Apple Orchard in the Spring, An.... 194 
Marveee, Andrew 

Girl and Her Fawn, The. 266 

Song of the Emigrants in Bermudas 365 

Meredith, Owen (Edward Robert Lytton 
Buewer, First Earl of Lytton) 

White Anemone, The. 225 

Merivaee, Herman Charees 
Ready, Ay, Ready. 320 

Mtdeane, Aebert 

Little Lamb Went Straying, A. 457 

There’s a Friend for Little Children 457 

Mtees, AeerED H. 

Big and Little Things. 44 

Mieeer, Thomas 

Mister Fly . 255 

Mother to Her Infant, The. no 

My Dearest Baby Go to Sleep. no 

Spring Walk, The. 197 

Sun, The. iqi 


































































Index of Authors 


Milton, John 

17 Allegro (Extracts) . 504 

Song on a May Morning. 198 

Mitford, Mary Russell 
Joy of Rife. 185 

Montgomery, James 

Daisy, The . 222 

Soliloquy of a Water-Wagtail.278 

Moore, Clement Clarke 
A Visit from St. Nicholas. 79 

Moore, Thomas 

Bird, Ret Roose in Eastern Skies, The 461 

Minstrel-Boy, The . 352 

Mountain Sprite, The. 149 

Oft in the Stilly Night. 507 

Peace Be Around Thee. 506 


529 


Oldys, William 

Fly, To a. 255 

Payne, John Howard 
Home, Sweet Home!. 233 

Peacock, Thomas Rove 

Oak and the Beech, The. 224 

Priest and the Mulberry Tree, The.. 303 

Peterson, Frederick 
Wild Geese. 282 

Poe, Edgar Allan 

Annabelle Ree . 446 

Bells, The . 500 

Fairyland . 147 

Haunted Palace, The. 503 

Helen, To i. 435 

Raven, The . 483 


More, Hannah 
Book, A ...., 


Pope, Alexander 
173 Ode on Solitude 


506 


Morris, George Pope 
Woodman, Spare that Tree. 492 

Motherwell, William 

Cavalier’s Song, The. 366 

Sing On, Blithe Bird. 267 

The Water! The Water!. 186 


Mulocic, Dinah Maria 

God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen. 463 

Green Things Growing. 215 

Highland Cattle . 211 

Nairne, Carolina Oliphant (Baroness 
Nairne) 

Auld House, The. 244 

Nashe, Thomas 

Spring . IQ 5 

Neal, John 

Good King Wenceslas. 466 

Nesbit, Edith (Mrs. Hubert Bland) 

Baby Seed Song..... 223 

Child’s Song in Spring.. 53 

Noel, Thomas 

Old Winter . 20 5 


O’Keeefe, Adelaide 

Beasts, Birds and Fishes... 

Foolish Emily and Her Kitten. 

George and the Chimney Sweeper... 

Going to Bed at Night. 

Rucy’s Canary. 

Nimble Dick... 


5 2 

75 
70 

100 

05 

76 


Powers, Horatio Nelson 
Chimney Swallows. 261 

Prior, Matthew 

Child of Noble Birth, To a. 434 

“ Ramal, Walter ” 

Bunches of Grapes. 62 

Dreamer, The . 499 

Hidden Mermaids, The. 487 

Rost Parnate, The . 488 

O for a Moon to Right Me Home... 506 

Ramsay, Allan 

My Peggy. 446 

Rands, William Brighty 

Blue Boy in Rondon, The. 62 

Dream of a Girl Who Rived at Seven 

Oaks, The . 89 

Peddler’s Caravan, The. 73 

Polly. 87 

Reformation of Godfrey Gore, The.. 39 

Shooting Song, A. 72 

World, The . 31 

Rankin, Jeremiah Eames 
Word of God to Reyden Came, The 343 

Read, Thomas Buchanan 
Sheridan’s Ride... 363 

Riley, James Whitcomb 

Boy’s Mother, A. 106 

Rittle Orphant Annie. 314 

Man in the Moon, The. 312 

Our Hired Girl. 313 




























































Index of Authors 


53° 


Raggedy Man, The. 312 

When the Frost Is On the Punkin.. 206 

Robertson, W. Graham 
Snowdrops . 38 

Rogers, Samuee 

Epitaph on a Robin Redbreast, An.. 275 
Wish, A. 231 

Roscoe, Wieeiam 

Butterfly’s Ball, The. 35 

Rossetti, Christina Georgina 

Child’s Talk in April. 263 

City Mouse and the Garden Mouse, 

The . 24 

Summer Days . 65 

Who Has Seen the Wind? . 30 

Year’s Windfalls, A. 82 

Sargent, Epes 

Deeds of Kindness. 16 

Saxe, John Godfrey 

Blind Men and the Elephant, The... 497 

Solomon and the Bees. 389 

Scott, Sir Waeter 

Bonnie Dundee . 348 

Christmas in the Olden Time. 238 

Hie Away. 227 

Hunting Song . 228 

Jock of Hazeldean.416 

Lady of the Lake, Lines from The.. 211 

Lay of the Last Minstrel, The. 393 

Lochinvar . 395 

Lullaby of an Infant Chief. ill 

My Native Land. 321 

Palmer, The . 397 

Proud Maisie . 446 

Rosabelle. 424 

Shepherd in Winter, The. 212 

Setoun, Gabriee (Thomas Nicoee Hep¬ 
burn) 

Jack Frost. 66 

Romance . 90 

Wind’s Song, The. 54 

World’s Music, The. 43 

Shakespeare, Wieeiam 

Autolycus, The Songs of. 480 

Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind.... 505 

Come Unto These Yellow Sands_481 

England I . 322 

England II . 323 

Full Fathom Five. 507 

Hark, Hark, the Lark. 179 

Mercy. 495 

Orphans . 224 


Queen Mab. 150 

Rain, It Raineth Every Day, The.... 480 

Under the Greenwood Tree.210 

When Icicles Hang by the Wall.... 201 

Where the Bee Sucks. 254 

Who Is Sylvia?. 436 

Wolsey... 494 

You Spotted Snakes. 152 


Sheeeey, Percy Bysshe 

Autumn . 198 

Cloud, The . 185 

Garden, A.i. 213 

Invitation, The . 515 

Skylark, To a. 269 

Shenstone, Wieeiam 

Inn at Henley, Written at an. 516 

Kid, The. 267 


Shorter, Dora Sigerson 
Piper on the Hill, The. 57 

Sigourney, Lydia Huntey 

Camel’s Nose, The. 174 

Columbus . 329 

I Must Not Tease My Molher. 13 

Indian Names . 345 

Skeeton, John 

Margaret Hussey, To Mistress. 450 

Smith, Ada 

In City Streets. 518 


Smith, Chareotte 

First Swallow, The . 274 

Nautilus, The. 258 


Smith, Samuee Francis 
America. 347 


Southey, Robert 

Battle of Blenheim, The. 396 

Bee, To a. 254 

Cataract of Lodore, The. 187 

Father William . 401 

Fountain of the Fairies, The. 148 

God’s Judgment on a Wicked Bishop 165 

Inchcape Rock, The. 397 

Morning Mist, The. 180 

Night in the Desert. 181 

Traveller’s Return, The. 320 

Well of St. Keyne, The. 403 


Spencer, Wieeiam Robert 

Beth Gelert. 

How-D’-Y’-Do and Good-Bye 

Spenser, Edmund 
Winter . 


402 

176 

204 









































































Index of Authors 



Steadman, Edmund Cearence 

Kearny at Seven Pines. 

Stevenson, Robert Louis 

At the Seaside. 

Bed in Summer. 

Escape at Bedtime. 

Farewell to the Farm. 

Foreign Lands. 

Gardener, The. 

Good and Bad Children. 

Good Play, A. 

Happy Thought . 

Lamplighter, The . 

Land of Counterpane, The. 

Land of Story-Books, The. 

Marching Song. 

My Bed is a Boat. 

My Shadow . 

Requiem. 

Swing, The . 

Thought, A. 

Whole Duty of Children. 

Wind, The . 

Swiet, Jonathan 

Riddle, A . 

Swinburne, Aegernon ChareES 
White Butterflies . 

Tate, Nahum 

While Shepherds Watched Their 
Flocks by Night. 

Tayeor, Ann (Mrs. Ann Giebert) 
Sheep, The. 

Tayeor, James Bayard 

Song of the Camp, The. 

Story for a Child, A. 

Tayeor, Jane 

Another Plum-Cake. 

Child’s Hymn of Praise, A. 

Cow, The . 

Cow and the Ass, The. 

Employment . 

Farm, The. 

Good-night . 

I Love Little Pussy. 

Little Star, The. 

Now and Then. 

Of What Are Your Clothes Made... 

Pond, The. 

Poppy, The. 

Snow . 

Spider and His Wife, The. 

Violet, The. 


Tayeor, Jeefreys 

341 Dog of Reflection, The. 170 

Lion and the Mouse, The. 17 1 

Milkmaid, The . 17° 

101 Young Mouse, The. 172 

101 

103 Tennyson, Aefred (First Baron Tenny- 

105 son) 

102 Beggar Maid, The. 436 

106 Blackbird, The . 270 

104 Break, Break, Break. 5 J 3 

102 Brook, The. 189 

103 Charge of the Light Brigade, The.. 336 

104 City Child, The. 73 

102 Death of the Old Year. 200 

105 Dying Swan, The. 281 

103 Eagle, The . 258 

104 Farewell, A . 513 

102 Home They Brought Her Warrior 

521 Dead . 496 

105 Lady Clare.444 

101 Lady of Shalott, The. 4 J 8 

101 Lord of Burleigh, The. 417 

104 Lotus-Eaters, The . 485 

Maud . 437 

May Queen, The . 438 

173 May Queen, and New Year’s Eve, 

Conclusion to the. 44 1 

Minnie and Winnie. 75 

254 New Year’s Eve. 439 

Owl, The . 276 

“Revenge,” The .339 

Ring Out, Wild Bells. 5M 

464 Sir Galahad . 42 1 

Splendour Falls on Castle Walls, The 352 

St. Agnes’ Eve.462 

21 Sweet and Low. 108 

Throstle, The. 279 

Ulysses. 5 02 

330 What Does Little Birdie Say?. 64 


95 

Thackeray, Wieeiam Makepeace 

Cane-Bottomed Chair, The. 

71 King Canute. 

454 Little Billee . 

18 Lucy’s Birthday . 

51 Pocahontas . 

90 Tragic Story, A. 

jj2 Thoreau, Henry David 
j - Nature . 5 1 7 

^ Thornbury, George Waeter 

Cavalier's Escape, The. 242 

33 Tickeee, Thomas 

2 5 Lucy and Colin.4°4 

96 

34 Tig he, Mary 

20 To a Little Girl Gathering Flowers.. 96 


242 
411 
2 93 
435 
344 
302 





















































































532 Index of Authors 


Toplady, Augustus Montague 
Rock of Ages. 456 

Trowbridge, John Townsend 

Midwinter. 205 

Pewee, The . 277 

Turner, Elizabeth 

Bird Catcher, The. 53 

Bird’s Nest, The. 21 

Canary, The . 30 

Good Girl, The. 94 

How to Write a Letter. 97 

Letter, The. 59 

Miss Sophia. 76 

New Book, The. 97 

Rudeness . 72 

Warner, Anna R. 

Daffy-Down-Dilly. 477 

Warton, Thomas 

Sunshine After a Shower. 191 

Watts, Isaac 

Cradle Song, A. Ill 

How Doth the Little Busy Bee. 17 

Let Dogs Delight to Bark and Bite.. 18 

Sluggard, The . 47 

Weatherly, Frederick Edward 

Bell’s Dream . 291 

Dustman, The . 113 

Lobster and the Maid, The. 299 

Webby, Amelia Coppuck 
Twilight at Sea. 517 

Wesley, Charles 

Gentle Jesus, Meek and Mild. 458 

Westwood, Thomas 

Lost Lamb, The. 32 

Mine Host of the “Golden Apple”.. 221 
Under My Window. 64 

White, Henry Kirk 
Early Primrose, To an. 220 


Whitehead, William 
Birthday of a Young Lady, On the.. 451 


Whitman, Walt 

O Captain! My Captain. 347 

Whittier, John Greenleaf 

Barbara Frietchie. 358 

Barefoot Boy, The. 81 


Brown of Ossawatomie. 360 

Corn Song, The. 20S 

Skipper Ireson’s Ride. 425 

Wilson, V. B. 

Ticonderoga . 334 

Wither, George 

Sleep, Baby, Sleep. in 

Wolfe, Charles 

Burial of Sir John Moore, The. 332 


Wordsworth, Dorothy (Mrs. Edward 
Quillian) 

Address to a Child During a Bois¬ 


terous Winter Evening. 45 

Cottager to Her Infant, The. 44 

Loving and Liking. 44 

Mother’s Return, The. 16 

Wordsworth, William 

Alice Fell. 413 

Blind Highland Boy, The. 243 

Butterfly, To a. 253 

Butterfly, To a. 253 

Cuckoo, To the. 273 

Founding of Bolton Priory, The.... 391 

Green Linnet, The. 277 

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud. 222 

Kitten at Play, The. 258 

Lucy . 448 

Lucy Gray. 414 

My Heart Leaps Up When I Behold 192 

Pet Lamb, The. 21 

Redbreast Chasing a Butterfly, The.. 275 

Reverie of Poor Susan, The. 447 

Seven Sisters, The. 415 

She Dwelt Among the Untrodden 

Ways . 437 

She Was a Phantom of Delight.437 

vSmall Celandine, To the. 220 

Solitary Reaper, The. 438 

Waterfall and the Eglantine, The... 164 
Westminster Bridge, Sonnet Com¬ 
posed Upon. 515 

Whirl-Blast, The . 193 

World Is Too Much With Us, The.. 514 
Written in March. 197 

Work, Henry Clay 

Marching Through Georgia. 365 

Wotton, Sir Henry 

Character of a Happy Life, The.490 


( 






























































Index of First Lines 


a. 

A bird appears a thoughtless thing.... 21 

A carrion crow sat on an oak. 119 

A cat came fiddling out of a barn.... 117 
A Chieftain to the Highlands bound.. 428 
A child should always say what’s true 101 

A country life is sweet. 67 

A dillar, a dollar . 137 

A dinner party, coffee, tea. 84 

A dog growing thinner, for want of a 

dinner. 170 

A fair girl was sitting in the green¬ 
wood shade. 153 

A fair little girl sat under a tree. 11 

A farmer went trotting upon his gray 

mare . 139 

A fire’s a good companionable friend.. 200 
A flock of merry singing-birds were 

sporting in the grove. 265 

A fox in life’s extreme decay. 168 

A frog he would a-wooing go. 118 

A goodly host one day was mine.221 

A lion cub, of sordid mind. 169 

A lion with the heat oppress’d. 171 

A little Boy had bought a top. 158 

A little Boy was set to keep. 159 

A little cock-sparrow sat on a green 

tree . 118 

A little fairy comes at night. 98 

A little lamb went straying. 457 

A little mushroom table spread.... 152 

A little saint best fits a little shrine... 232 

A little sun, a little rain. 497 

A milkmaid, who poised a full pail on 

her head. 170 

A month, sweet Uttle-ones, is past.... 16 
A mother came when stars were paling 153 
A mouse found a beautiful piece of 

plum-cake . 39 

A neat little book, full of pictures, was 

bought . 97 

A nightingale, that all day long. 164 

A pair of steady rooks. 4 ° 

A peasant to his lord paid yearly court 161 

A poet’s cat, sedate and grave. 259 

A rose, as fair as ever saw the North.. 226 

A rosebud by my early walk. 216 

A sail! a sail! Oh, whence away. 243 


A sensitive plant in a garden grew.... 213 
A silly young cricket, accustomed to 

sing ... 42 

A spaniel, Beau, that fares like you... 260 
A steed! a steed of matchless speed... 366 

A sunshiny shower .141 

A swarm of bees in May. 141 

A tear bedews my Delia’s eye. 267 

A thing of beauty is a joy forever.... 516 
A thousand miles from land are we... 285 

A was an apple-pie. 114 

A was an archer, who shot at a frog.. 114 
A well there is in the west country.... 403 

A wet sheet and a flowing sea. 361 

A whirl-blast from behind the hill_ 193 

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe in¬ 
crease!) . 494 

Agincourt, Agincourt . 320 

Ah, what avails the sceptered race.... 436 

All in the morning early. 62 

All things bright and beautiful. 455 

All through the sultry hours of June.. 257 

Almighty Framer of the Skies. 464 

A11 ancient cavern, huge and wide. 159 

An ancient story I’ll tell you anon.... 430 
And where have you been, my Mary... 155 

Anger in its time and place. 47 

Announced by all the trumpets of the 

sky ..... 193 

Any grist for the mill. 67 

Around Assai’s convent gate. 465 

Arthur, to Robert, made a sign. 24 

As I came round the harbor buoy..... 416 

As I walked by myself. 124 

As I walked over the hill one day.... 93 

As I was going to St. Ives. 141 

As I was walking up the street.448 

As I went through a garden gap. 140 

As it fell upon a day. 272 

As Joseph was a-walking. 463 

As Sir Launfal made morn through 

the darksome gate. 477 

As Tommy Snooks and Bessie Brooks 116 

At evening when the lamp is lit. 105 

At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard 

Grenville lay. 339 

At the corner of Wood Street, when 
daylight appears . 447 




























































534 Index of First Lines 


Attend, all ye who list to hear our 


noble England’s praise. 330 

Augustus was a chubby lad. 77 

Awake my soul, and with the sun.453 

Away, away in the Northland. 28 

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down.358 

B. 

Ba, ba, black sheep. 119 

Baby, baby, lay your head. 112 

Barber, barber, shave a pig. 132 

Barley-mowers, here we stand.207 

Bartholomew is very sweet. 13 

Bat, bat, come under my hat. 119 

Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf.. 164 

Behold her, single in the field.438 

Beneath these fruit-tree boughs, that 

shed . 277 

Beside a green meadow a stream used 

to flow . 51 

Bessie Bell and Mary Gray. 131 

Best and brightest, come away. 515 

Betty Pringle had a little pig. 130 

Between the dark and the daylight.... 80 
Between Nose and Eyes a strange con¬ 
test arose. 177 

Beyond the vague Atlantic deep. 322 

Birdie, birdie, quickly come. 24 

Birdie, birdie, will you pet. 267 

Birds in the high Hall-garden. 437 

Birds, joyous birds of the wandering 

wing . 273 

Bird of the wilderness. 268 

Blessings on thee, little man. 81 

Blossom of the almond trees. 218 

Blow, blow, thou winter wind. 505 

Blow, wind, blow. 203 

Blow, wind, blow! and go, mill, go.... 137 

Bobby Shaftoe’s gone to sea. 137 

Brave news is come to town. 143 

Break, break, break. 513 

Breathes there a man with soul so dead 321 
Bright glows the east, with blushing 

red . 56 

Brightest and best of the sons of the 

morning. 464 

Bring the comb and play upon it. 103 

Bring the good old bugle, boys, we’ll 

sing another song. 365 

Bring not bright candles, for her eyes. 499 

Brothers and sisters I have many. 89 

Brow bender, Eye peeper. 130 

Brown eyes, straight nose. 87 

“ Bunches of grapes,” says Timothy... 62 

Burly dozing humble-bee. 248 

Busy, curious, thirsty Fly. 255 

Buttercups and daisies. 2T7 

Butterfly, butterfly, brilliant and bright. 30 
By Nebo’s lonely mountain. 469 


By the moon we sport and play. 149 

By the rude bridge that arched the 

flood ... 347 

Bye, baby bunting. 108 

C. 

Can I see another’s woe.487 

Can this be the bird to man so good... 275 

Cheeks as soft as July peaches. 241 

Cherry ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry.434 

Children, you are very little. 104 

Christmas in lands of the fir tree and 

pine. 458 

Clear had the day been from the dawn. 191 
Close by the threshold of a door nailed 

fast . 161 

Cock a doodle doo. 119 

Come away, elves, while the dew is 

sweet . 155 

Come, bring with a noise. 239 

Come cuddle close in daddy’s coat. 157 

Come dear children, let us away. 481 

Come follow, follow me... 148 

Come here, little Robin, and don’t be 

afraid . 18 

Come here to papa, and I’ll tell my 

dear boy . 69 

Come hither, little puppy dog. 143 

Come, let’s to bed. 136 

“ Come, little leaves,” said the wind 

one day. 88 

Come live with me and be my Love.... 479 

Come, my little Robert, near. 71 

Come, pretty lamb, do stay with me_ 20 

Come, sons of summer, by whose toil.. 209 
Come, take up your hats, and away let 

us haste. 35 

Come unto these yellow sands.481 

“ Courage! ” he said, and pointed to¬ 
ward the land . 485 

Cromwell, I did not think to shed a 

tear . 494 

Cross patch . 130 

Curly locks, curly locks! wilt thou be 
mine . 135 

E>. 

Daffy-down-dilly . 477 

Dainty little maiden, whither would 

you wander. 73 

Dance, little baby, dance up high. 142 

Dance my baby diddy. 108 

Dear Agatha, I give you joy. 94 

Deep on the convent-roof the snows... 462 

Did you ever see the nest. 25 

Did you hear of the curate who 

mounted his mare. 303 

Diddledy, diddledy, dumpty. 119 

Dim vales, and shadowy floods. 147 
















































































Index of First Lines 53^ 


Ding, dong, bell. 120 

Doctor Faustus was a good man. 116 

Down in a green and shady bed. 20 

Down swept the chill wind from the 

mountain peak. 192 

Down the wintry mountain.211 

Down with the rosemary and so.237 

Do you ask what the birds say? The 
sparrow, the dove.490 

E. 

Earth has not anything to show more 

fair . 515 

Eliza and Anne were extremely dis¬ 
tress’d . 21 

Elizabeth, Dizzy, Betsy and Bess. 140 

Elsie Marley is grown so fine. 129 

Encinctured with a twine of leaves.... 474 

Ere on my bed my limbs I lay.473 

Evening red and morning gray. 142 

Ever after summer shower. 191 

F. 

Fair daffodils, we weep to see. 223 

Father calls me William, sister calls me 

Will . 316 

Fiddle-de-dee, fiddle-de-dee. 123 

First came the primrose. 195 

First comes January. 63 

Flour of England, fruit of Spain. 140 

Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea_513 

Fly, white butterflies, out to sea.254 

For every evil under the sun. 141 

For the tender beech and the sapling 

oak .. 224 

For want of a nail, the shoe was lost.. 141 

Formed long ago, yet made to-day. 140 

Four and twenty tailors went to kill a 

snail . 123 

Four of us went to the woods one day. 99 
Freddie saw some fine ripe cherries... 89 

From Greenland’s icy mountains.468 

Full fathom five thy father lies. 507 

Full knee-deep lies the winter snow... 200 

G. 

Gamarra is a dainty steed.264 

Gay go up, and gay go down. 135 

Gay little Dandelion. 61 

Get up, get up, for shame! this bloom¬ 
ing morn ... 214 

Get up, little boy, you are sleeping too 

long. 3 1 

Get up, little sister: the morning is 

bright . 11 

Gentle Jesus, meek and mild.45^ 

Girls and boys come out to play.--- 134 

“Give us a song!” the soldiers cried.. 330 
Go, pretty child, and bear this flower.. 472 


God make my life a little light.472 

God rest ye, merry gentlemen; let 

nothing you dismay. 463 

Godfrey Gordon Gustavus Gore. 39 

Golden slumbers kiss your eyes. 112 

Good King Wenceslas looked out.466 

Good people all, of every sort. 288 

Good-by, good-by to Summer. 271 

“ Good-morrow, my lord! ” in the sky 

alone. 74 

“ Good-night, Sir Rook! ” said a little 

lark . 70 

Goosey, goosey gander. 120 

Great King Sun is out in the cold. 38 

Great, wide, beautiful, wonderful world 31 


Green little vaulter in the sunny grass. 251 

H. 

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove.. 272 


Hail to thee, blithe spirit. 269 

Half a league, half a league. 336 

Hame, hame, hame, O hame fain wad 

I be. 232 

Hamel in Town’s in Brunswick. 293 

Handy Spandy, Jack-a-dandy. 134 

Happy insect! what can be. 251 

Happy the man, whose wish and care.. 506 

Hark ! hark ! . 120 

Hark! hark! the lark at Heaven’s gate 

sings . 179 

Hark! hark! the merr}' warder’s horn. 230 
Hast thou named all the birds without 

a gun. 490 

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with 

thee . 504 

Have you heard of the wonderful one- 

hoss shay. 507 

Have you seen an apple orchard in the 

spring . 194 

Have you seen but a bright lily grow.. 436 
He clasps the crag with crooked hands. 258 
He ne’er had seen one earthly sight... 243 

He put his acorn helmet on. 147 

He quickly arms him for the field. 154 

He that is down needs fear no fall.... 211 

He that would thrive. 141 

He thought he saw an Elephant. 305 

He was a gentle lobster. 299 

Heap high the farmer’s wintry board.. 208 
Heap on more wood !—the wind is chill 238 

Hear the sledges with the bells. 500 

Hear your sovereign’s proclamation... 278 
Hearts, like doors, will ope with ease.. 144 
Heave at the windlass!—Heave O, 

cheerly, men. 360 

Hector Protector was dressed all in 

green. 137 

Helen, thy beauty is to me.435 

Fler arms across her breast she laid... 436 





































































Index of First Lines 


53 6 

Her blue eyes they beam and they 


twinkle . 434 

Her chariot ready straight is made.... 151 

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee_451 

Here a little child I stand.455 

Here are sweet peas on tiptoe for a 

flight. 216 

Here in the country’s heart. 520 

Here lies one who never drew. 261 

Here sits the Lord Mayor. 139 

Here sparrows build upon the tree.241 

Here stands a good apple tree. 92 

Here we go up, up, up. 123 

Here’s a poor widow from Babylon... 126 

Hey diddle, dinkety, poppety, pet. 142 

Hey, my kitten, my kitten. 123 

Hi! diddle diddle. 120 

Hickory, dickory, dock. 137 

Hie away, hie away. 227 

Higglepy, Piggleby . 120 

High on a bright and sunny bed. 25 

His petticoats now George cast off.... 70 

Holy, hoi}', holy, Lord God Almighty.. 459 
Home they brought her warrior dead.. 496 

Hot-cross buns . 124 

How beautiful is night. 181 

How beautiful is the rain. 190 

How do you like to go up in a swing.. 105 
How does the water come down at 

Lodore . 187 

How doth the little busy bee. 17 

How falls it, Oriole, thou hast come 

to fly. 281 

How happy is he born and taught.490 

How joyously the young sea-mew.284 

How oft against the sunset sky or 

moon . 282 

“How old art thou?” said the garru¬ 
lous gourd . 163 

How pleasant the life of a bird must be 86 

How pleasant to know Mr. Lear. 291 

How sleep the Brave who sink to rest. 321 
How sweet I roam’d from field to field 487 
How sweet is the shepherd’s sweet lot. 210 

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. 134 

Hundreds of stars in the pretty sky.... 82 

Hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree-top. 108 

Hush! my'dear, lie still and slumber... in 
Hush thee, my babby. 112 

I. 

I ain’t afeard uv snakes, or toads, or 

bugs, or worms, or mice. 315 

I am coming, I am coming. 66 

I bring fresh showers for the thirsting 

flowers . 185 

I cannot do the big things. 44 

I come from haunts of coot and hern. 189 
I do not own an inch of land. 519 


I had a dove, and the sweet dove died. 271 

1 had a little bird. 498 

1 had a little Doggy, that used to sit 

and beg . 139 

I had a little husband. 135 

I had a little nut tree. 124 

I had a little pony. 120 

I have a little shadow that goes in and 

out with me. 102 

I have a little sister. 13 

I have got a new-born sister. 12 

I have no name. 12 

1 heard the trailing garments of the 

night . 182 

I know a funny little man. 101 

I love it—I love it, and who shall dare. 236 

1 love little pussy. 15 . 

I love sixpence, pretty little sixpence.. 125 

1 love to hear thine earnest voice.248 

I must not tease my mother. 13 

I must not throw upon the floor. 15 

“ 1 never can do it,” the little kite said. 42 

I never saw a moor. 462 

1 once had a sweet little doll, dears.... 88 

I remember, I remember.474 

I said, “ Let me walk in the fields ”.... 470 
I sail’d from the Downs in the Nancy. . 362 

I saw a ship a-sailing. 90 

I saw a ship a-sailing. 124 

I saw the pride of all the meadows.... 222 

I saw three ships come sailing in.467 

I saw you toss the kites on high. 104 

I shot an arrow into the air. 476 

I slept in an old homestead by the sea. 261 
I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and 

he . 352 

I stood tiptoe upon a little hill. 213 

I thank the goodness and the grace.... 454 

I thank Thee, Lord, for quiet rest.454 

I thought to pass away before, and 

yet alive I am.441 

I wandered lonely as a cloud. 222 

I will not have the mad Clytie. 226 

I will paint her as I see her. 443 

1 wish I lived in a cavern. 73 

I wish I were where Helen lies. 422 

T wish you were a pleasant wren.263 

I’ll tell you a story. 124 

I’ll tell you how the leaves came down. 58 
I’m a new contradiction; I’m new and 

I’m old. 173 

I’ve plucked the berry from the bush, 

the brown nut from the tree. 267 

I’ve watched you now a full half-hour. 253 

Tf all the world were apple pie. 124 

If I had as much money as I could 

spend . 125 

Tf I had but two little wings.499 

If no one ever marries me. 100 












































































537 


Index of First Lines 


If the evening’s red and the morning 

gray. 

If wishes were horses. 

If ye fear to be benighted..* 

If you’re waking call me early, call me 

early, mother dear. 

In a crack near a cupboard, with dain¬ 
ties provided. 

In a dark little crack, half a yard from 

the ground. 

In a drear-nighted December. 

In Christian world Mary the garland 

wears . 

In distant days of wild romance. 

In go-cart so tiny. 

In her ear he whispers gaily.. 

In marble walls as white as milk. 

In May, when sea-winds pierced our 

solitudes. 

In numbers, and but these few.. 

In other men we faults can spy. 

In petticoat of green. 

In Scarlet town, where I was born.... 
In Scotland’s realm, forlorn and bare.. 

In summer I am very glad. 

In tattered old slippers that toast at the 

bars. 

In that soft mid-land where the breezes 

bear. 

In the deep shadows of the porch. 

In the greenest of our valleys. 

In the hollow tree in the old grey tower 

In the morning when you rise. 

In the young merry time of spring.... 

In winter I get up at night. 

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan. 

In yonder valley there dwelt, alone.... 
In your garb and outward clothing.... 
Inhuman man! curse on thy barbarous 

art . 

Intery, minted, cutery-corn. 

Into the sunshine. 

Is John Smith within. 

Is there, for honest poverty. 

Is this a time to be cloudy and sad.... 

It happened on a summer’s day. 

It is an ancient Mariner. 

It is not growing like a tree. 

It is very nice to think. 

It takes a lot of letters to make up the 

alphabet . 

It was a blind beggar had long lost his 

sight ._. 

It was a merry time. 

It was a summer evening. 

_ It was an old, old, old, old lady. 

It was Earl Haldan’s daughter. 

It was many and many a year ago. 

It was six men of Indostan... 


191 

141 

150 

439 

172 

34 

199 

434 

175 

144 

417 

140 


226 

465 

169 

451 

423 

283 

44 

242 

378 
225 
503 
276 
150 
207 
101 
502 
149 

70 

262 

144 

187 

124 

321 

184 

69 

379 
491 
101 

98 

37i 

77 

396 

106 

401 

446 

497 


It was the calm and silent night.460 

It was the charming month of May... 449 

It was the little Isabel. 29r 

It was the schooner Hesperus. 398 

It was the time when lilies blow.444 

It’s rare to see the morning breeze.235 


Jack and Jill went up the hill. 135 

Jack Horner was a pretty lad. 142 

Jack Sprat could eat no fat. 135 

Jaffar, the Barmecide, the good Vizier. 428 
James went to the door of the kitchen 

and said.72 

Jane, do you see these little dots. 60 

January brings the snow. 194 

Jenny Wren fell sick. 117 

Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me.472 

John Anderson my jo, John.489 

John Brown of Ossawatomie spake on 

his dying day. 360 

John Gilpin was a citizen. 306 

Johnny shall have a new bonnet. 108 

Joy to Philip! he this day. 68 

IC. 

King Bruce of Scotland flung himself 

down. 48 

King Canute was weary hearted; he 

had reigned for years a score.410 

King Francis was a hearty king, and 
loved a royal sport. 429 

L. 

Eady Moon, Lady Moon, where are you 

roving. 68 

Lady-bird, lady-bird, fly away home... 120 
Lastly came winter clothed all in frize. 204 

Lazy sheep, pray tell me why. 21 

Lear and Cordelia! ’twas an ancient 

tale . 319 

Let dogs delight to bark and bite. 18 

Like trains of cars on tracks of plush. 253 

Lion, thou art girt with might. 265 

Listen to the kitchen clock. 59 

Little birds sleep sweetly.471 

Little Bo-peep has lost her sheep. 130 

Little boy blue, come blow your horn.. 131 

Little brother, darling boy. 12 

Little brown brother, oh! little brown 

brother.223 

Little children, never give. 31 

Little drops of water. 50 

Little Elbe sits alone.408 

Little flutt'rer! swifter flying.272 

Little fly . 255 

Little inmate, full of mirth. 252 
















































































538 Index of First Lines 


Little Jack Horner sat in the corner 

eating a Christmas pie. 134 

Little kittens, be quiet—be quiet, I say 30 

Little lamb, who made thee. 32 

Little Miss Muffit. 129 

Little Nanny Etticoat. 178 

Little one, come to my knee.... 95 

Little Orphant Annie’s come to our 

house to stay. 314 

Little Polly Flinders. 130 

Little Robin Redbreast sat upon a tree 138 

Little Tom Tucker. 131 

Little White Lily sat by a stone. 57 

Lo, the lilies of the field. 460 

London Bridge is broken down. 136 

Long legs, crooked thighs. 140 

Look, William, how the morning mists 1S0 
Lord Lovel he stood at his castle gate 388 

Lord, Thou hast given me a cell.468 

Lullaby! O lullaby! . 109 

M. 

Mamma gave us a single peach. 91 

Mamma, let’s go and see the lambs.... 15 

March winds and April showers. 141 

Maria intended a letter to write. 97 

Mary had a little bird. 30 

Mary had a little lamb. 137 

Mary, Mary, quite contrary. 130 

Matilda, come hither, I pray. 54 

Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. 136 

Maxwelton braes are bonnie. 427 

Merry are the bells, and merry would 

they ring. 138 

Merry it is on a summer’s day. 60 

Merry Margaret . 450 

Merry, merry sparrow. 212 

’Mid pleasures and palaces though we 

may roam . 233 

Mild offspring of a dark and sullen sire 220 

Mine be a cot beside a hill. 231 

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the 

coming of the Lord. 348 

Minnie and Winnie slept in a shell. ... 75 

Miss Lydia Banks, though very young 94 

Miss Sophy, one fine sunny day. 76 

Monday’s child is fair of face. 115 

Moon, so round and yellow. 139 

Morning, evening, noon, and night.... 493 

Mother, may I go in to swim. 130 

Mr. East gave a feast. 124 

Much have I traveled in the realms of 

gold.489 

Multiplication is vexation. 115 

My bed is like a little boat. 104 

My boy, be cool, do things by rule.... 76 

My country, ’tis of thee. 347 

My dearest baby, go to sleep. no 


My fairest child, I have no song to give 

you . 

My good blade carves the casques of 

men. 

My heart leaps up when I behold. 

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart 

is not here... 

My house is red—a little house. 

My Lady Wind, my Lady Wind. 

My little doves have left a nest. 

My love he built me a bonnie bower... 

My mind to me a kingdom is. 

My mother she’s so good to me. 

My noble lovely little Peggy. 

My Peggy is a young thing. 

My tea is nearly ready and the sun has 
left the sk}. 

N. 

Near yonder copse, where once the gar¬ 
den smiled. 

Needles and pins, needles and pins.... 
No stir in the air, no stir in the sea... 
Nobly, nobly Cape Saint Vincent to the 

north-west died away.... 

Not a care hath Marien Lee. 

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral 

note. 

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from 

whom all glories are. 

Now, he who knows old Christmas.... 
Now in her green mantle blythe Nature 

arrays . 

Now, Lamb, no longer naughty be. 

Now, Miss Clara, point your toe. 

Now ponder well, you parents dear.... 
Now that the winter’s gone, the earth 

hath lost . 

Now the bright morning star, Day’s 

harbinger. 

Now the day is over. 

Now the dreary night is done. 

O. 

O Blackbird! sing me something well 
O blithe newcomer! I have heard.... 
O Captain! my Captain! our fearful 

trip is done. 

O come to the garden, dear brother, 

and see. 

O for a moon to light me home. 

O, gentle, gentle summer rain. 

O listen, listen, ladies gay. 

O little town of Bethlehem. 

O Mary, go and call the cattle home... 

O nature! I do not aspire. 

O The Raggedy Man! He works fer 
Pa . 


452 

421 

192 

343 

145 

73 

271 

417 

492 

106 

434 

446 

104 


245 

141 

397 

326 

450 

332 

326 

237 

449 

145 

60 

367 

195 

198 

471 

453 


270 

273 

347 

96 

506 

198 

424 

459 

444 

517 


312 










































































539 


Index of First Lines 


O what can ail thee, Knight-at-arms... 426 

O winds that blow across the sea. 54 

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the 

west. 395 

Observe, dear George, this nut so small 54 

October gave a party. 65 

Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw.449 

Of all the birds from East to West... 285 
Of all the rides since the birth of time 425 

Of all the ships upon the blue.286 

Of Leinster fam’d for maidens fair... 404 

Of Nelson and the North. 335 

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray. 414 

Oft in the stilly night. 506 

Often I think of the beautiful town... 475 

Oh! dear! what can the matter be. 130 

Oh, Hesperus! thou bringest all good 

things . 180 

Oh, hush thee, my baby! thy sire was a 

knight. hi 

Oh, I’ve got a plum-cake, and a feast 

let us make. 71 

Oh! look at the moon. 27 

Oh! lovely voices of the sky. 454 

Oh, oh, how the wild winds blow! .... 203 
Oh, Piggy, what was in your trough... 33 

Oh say, can you see by the dawn’s early 

light . 345 

Oh, the auld house, the auld house.... 244 
Oh, the green things growing, the green 

things growing. 215 

Oh then I see, Queen Mab hath been 

with you. 150 

Oh, thou alphabetic row. 174 

Oh to be in England .... 3 2 5 

Oh where and oh where is my little wee 

dog . 133 

Oh where! and oh where! is your 

Highland laddie gone... 341 

Oh! where do fairies hide their heads 148 

Oh! where do you come from. 48 

Oh, who is so merry, so merry, heigh 

ho . 146 

Oh ye! who so lately were blithesome 

and gay . 36 

Old creeping time, with silent tread... 451 
Old England’s sons are English yet.... 320 
Old Grimes is dead; that good old man 509 

Old King Cole... 

Old Meg she was a gipsy. 479 

Old Mother Duck has hatched a brood 27 

Old Mother Goose, when. 128 

Old Mother Hubbard. I2 6 

Old Mother Twitchett had but one eye 140 
- Old Winter sad, in snowy clad. 205 


Old woman, old woman, shall we go 

shearing . ; ... I2 ? 

On either side the river lie.418 

On Linden, when the sun was low.... 349 


On Saturday night . 135 

On the banks of Allan Water.408 

On the bloody field of Monmouth.350 

On the Coast of Coromandel. 310 

On the dark hill’s western side. 473 

On the sea and at the Hogue, sixteen 

hundred ninety-two .409 

On the wind of January. 82 

On yonder hill there stands a tree.... 143 
Once in his shop a workman wrought.. 174 

Once in royal David’s city. 466 

Once on a time it came to pass. 159 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I 

pondered weak and weary.483 

One day, Good-bye met How-d’-y’-do 176 

One day the letters went to school. 174 

One misty, moisty morning. 125 

One old Oxford ox opening oysters... 115 

One, two . 114 

Only a baby small. 14 

Only look at this nosegay of pretty wild 

flowers . 59 

Onward, Christian soldiers.467 

Open the door, some pity to show.... 397 

Orpheus with his lute made trees.224 

Others abide our question. Thou art 

free . 520 

Our camp-fires shone bright on the 

mountains . 364 

Our hired girl, she’s 'Lizabuth Ann.... 313 

Over the mountains. 245 

Over the river and through the wood.. 74 

Over the water and over the sea. 135 

P. 

Pack, clouds, away! and welcome, day 495 

Pansies, lilies, kingcups, daisies. 220 

Parrot, if I had your wings. 158 

Passing I saw her as she stood beside 465 
Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man... 124 
Peace be around thee, wherever thou 

rov’st . 5°6 

Pease-pudding hot. 123 

Pemmy was a pretty girl. 129 

Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater... 137 

Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled 

peppers . 178 

Peter White will ne’er go right. 143 

Piping down the valleys wild. 474 

Please to remember. 123 

Please your grace, from out your store 151 

Polly, put the kettle on. 129 

Poor Johnny was bended well nigh 

double . 166 

Poor old Robinson Crusoe. 116 

Pretty flowers, tell me why. 20 

Pretty maid. 129 

Proud Maisie is in the wood..446 

Pussicat, wussicat, with a white foot.. 116 







































































540 


Index of First Lines 


Pussy sits beside the fire. 142 

Pussycat Mole. 123 

Pussy-cat lives in the servants’ hall... 19 

Pussy-cat, pussy-cat, where have you 
been . 121 


Queen and huntress, chaste and fair... 436 


R. 

Rain before seven. 141 

Rainbow at night. 14 2 

Receive my body, pretty bed. 100 


Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross... 129 
Ring out wild bells to the wild sky. . . . 514 
Ring-ting! I wish I were a Primrose 217 
Rise ! Sleep no more ! ’Tis a noble morn 228 
Robin and Richard were two pretty 


men . 134 

Robin Hood, Robin Hood. 133 

Rock of Ages, cleft for me. 456 

Rock-a-bye, Baby, thy cradle is green 108 
Roll on, roll on, you restless waves.... 24 

Rowley Powley, pudding and pie. 133 

Rub-a-dub-dub. 137 

S. 

Said Robin to his pretty mate. 94 

Said The Raggedy Man, on a hot after¬ 
noon . 312 

Said the Wind to the Moon, “ I will 

blow you out ”. 55 

Sand, sand, hills of sand. 487 

Saw ye never in the meadows. 469 

Say not you love a roasted fowl. 44 

Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled. 342 

See, saw, Margery Daw. 129 

See the kitten on the wall. 258 

See-saw sacradown . 142 

Seest thou yon woodland child. 214 

Seven daughters had Lord Archibald.. 415 
Seven sweet singing birds up in a tree 89 
Seven weeks of sea, and twice seven 

days of storm. 362 

Seventeen rose-buds in a ring. 435 

She dwelt among the untrodden ways 437 

She is a rich and rare land. 333 

She stood breast-high amid the corn... 447 
She walks in beauty, like the night.... 450 

She was a Phantom of delight. 437 

Shed no tear! O, shed no tear. 149 

Shepherds all, and maidens fair. 180 

Simple Simon met a pieman. 133 

Sing a song of sixpence. n6 

Sing, sing, what shall I sing. 117 

Sing sweet, my bird; oh! sing, I pray 05 

Sir, when I flew to seize the bird. 260 

Six little mice sat down to spin. 137 


Sleep, baby, sleep. 112 

Sleep, baby, sleep! what ails my dear., in 
Sleep, little brother, you must not 

awaken. 5 ° 

Sleep, sleep, beauty bright. 109 

Slumber, my darling, no danger is near no 

Sneel, snaul... 121 

So that soldierly legend is still on its 

journey... 34 1 

Soldier and statesman, rarest unison... 336 

Solomon Grundy. 133 

Some asked me where the rubies grew 451 
Some innocent girlish Kisses by a 

charm . 218 

Somewhat back from the village street 234 

Somewhere it is always light. 191 

Souls of Poets dead and gone. 500 

Sounds the flute . 196 

Southward with fleet of ice... 400 

Spring is coming, spring is coming- 92 

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year’s 

pleasant king . 195 

St. Stephen’s cloistered hall was proud 329 
Stay near me—do not take thy flight... 253 
Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest 231 

Storm upon the mountain. 32 

Summer is coming, summer is coming 279 

Suppose the little Cowslip. 16 

Sweet and low, sweet and low. 108 

Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the 

plain . 239 

Sweet dreams, form a shade. 109 

Sweet to the morning traveller. 320 

Sweetest! if thy fairy hand. 96 

T. 

Taffy was a Welshman, Taffy was a 

thief . 133 

Thank you, pretty cow, that made. 18 

The Assyrian came down like the wolf 

on the fold. 323 

The barber shaved the mason. 132 

The bird, let loose in eastern skies.... 461 
The Bluebell is the sweetest flower.... 219 
The boy stood on the burning deck.... 333 

The breaking waves dashed high. 344 

The brown Owl sits in the ivy bush... 26 
The candles are lighted, the fire blazes 

bright . 46 

The captain stood on the carronade— 

“ First Lieutenant,” says he. 361 

The cat’s at the window, and Shock’s at 

the door. 53 

The chough and crow to rest are gone 430 

The city mouse lives in a house. 24 

The clock is on the stroke of six. 240 

The coach is at the door at last....... 105 

The cock is crowing. 197 

The cold, gray light of the dawning... 334 


































































Index of First Lines 541 


The Cuckoo is a fine bird. 119 

The curfew tolls the knell of parting 

day . 510 

The days are cold, the nights are long 44 

The deep affections of the breast. 279 

The dew was falling fast, the stars be¬ 
gan to blink. 21 

The Dog will come when he is called. . 52 

The door was shut, as doors should be 66 
The dusky night rides down the sky... 228 


The Fox jumped up on a moonlight 


night . 121 

The Frost looked forth, one still clear 

night . 204 

The frugal snail, with forecast of re¬ 
pose . 250 

The gardener does not love to talk. 106 

The Glow-worm with his horny wings 26 
The good dame looked from her cot¬ 
tage .. 355 

The gorse is yellow on the heath. 274 

The grass so little has to do. 219 

The hag is astride. 155 

The Flart he loves the high wood. 122 

The hollow winds begin to blow. 189 

The Humming-bird! the Humming-bird 282 

The hunt is up, the hunt is up. 229 

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece 322 
The Jackdaw sat on the Cardinal’s chair 299 

The King was on his throne. 462 

The lights from the parlor and kitchen 

shone out. 103 

The linnet in the rocky dells. 422 

The Lion and the Unicorn. 122 

The listening Dryads hushed the woods 277 

The man in the moon. 143 

The man in the wilderness asked me... 116 
The May winds gently lift the. willow 

leaves . 210 

The melancholy days are come, the 

saddest of the year. 227 

The Minstrel-boy to the war is gone... 352 
The month was June, the day was hot. 91 

The mountain and the squirrel. 162 

The night has a thousand eyes. 490 

The night is come, but not too soon... 184 

The north wind doth blow . 15 

The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea 302 

The owl to her mate is calling. 224 

The plain was grassy, wild and bare... 281 

The Pobble who has no to_s. 290 

The poetry of earth is never dead.251 

The post-boy drove with fierce career. 413 
.The quality of mercy is not strained... 495 

The Queen of Hearts. 137 

The rich man’s son inherits lands.318 

The robin and the red-breast. 61 

The sad and solemn Night. 182 

The sea! the sea! the open sea. 354 


The shades of night were falling fast.. 491 

The shepherd boy lies on the hill. 180 

The silver birch is a dainty lady. 53 

The Son of God goes forth to war... 455 

The spacious firmament on high.456 

The spearman heard the bugle sound.. 402 
The speckled sky is dim with snow.... 205 
The splendour falls on castle walls.... 352 
The squirrel is happy, the squirrel is 


gay. 264 

The stormy March is come at last.... 196 
The summer and autumn has been so 

wet . 165 

The sun descending in the west. 181 

The sun doth arise. 231 

The sun is a glorious thing. 26 

The sun is careering in glory and might 185 
The sun is down, and time gone by.... 182 

The sun is hidden from our sight. 100 

The sun shines bright in the old Ken¬ 
tucky home. 235 

The sun was shining on the sea. 303 

The sun, with his great eye. 172 

The twilight hours, like birds, flew by.. 517 
The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind 

is wailing . 198 

The Water! the Water! . 186 

The way was long, the wind was cold. 393 

The western waves of ebbing day. 211 

The wind has a language, I would I 

could learn . 201 

The wind one morning sprang up from 

sleep . 202 

The word of God to Leyden came.343 

The world is so full of a number of 

things . 103 

The world is too much with us; late 

and soon . 514 

The world’s a very happy place. 43 

The year’s at the spring. 97 

There are twelve months throughout 

the year. 199 

There dwelt a miller, hale and bold... 489 

There is a bird, who by his coat. 264 

There is a flower, a little flower. 222 

There is a fountain in the forest called 148 

There is wind where the rose was.488 

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her 

sail. 5 02 

There lived a sage in days of yore.... 302 

There sits a piper on the hill. 57 

There was a chandler making candle.. 143 
There was a crooked man, and he went 

a crooked mile. 133 

There was a frog lived in a well. 122 

There was a little boy and a little girl. 135 
There was a little girl, who had a little 

curl . 39 

There was a little hobby-horse. 33 



































































542 Index of First Lines 


There was a little man. 126 

There was a little man. 127 

There was a little nobby colt. 142 

There was a little Rabbit sprig. 117 

There was a man and he went mad... 132 
There was a man in our toone, in our 

toone, in our toone. 132 

There was a man of Newington. 132 

There was a monkey climb’d up a tree 115 
There was a round pond, and a pretty 

pond too. 33 

There was a sound of revelry by night 337 
There was a youth, a well-beloved 

youth . 407 

There was an old man. 143 

There was an Old Man with a beard.. 311 

There was an old woman. 125 

There was an old woman, and what do 

you think. 126 

There was an old woman, as I’ve heard 

tell. 127 

There was an old woman toss’d up in 

a basket. 125 

There was an old woman who lived in 

a shoe. 125 

There was feasting in the hall. 377 

There were ninety and nine that safely 

lay . 461 

There were three jovial Welshmen.... 286 
There were three sailors of Bristol city 293 

There were two blackbirds. 117 

There’s a dragon on our teapot. 98 

There’s a Friend for little children.... 457 
There’s a merry brown thrush sitting 

up in the tree. 92 

There’s no dew left on the daisies and 

clover . 87 

They glide upon their endless way.... 183 
They say that God lives very high.... 456 

They that wash on Monday. 141 

They went to sea in a sieve, they did... 289 

Thirty days hath September. 115 

Thirtv white horses upon a red hill. ... 140 
This England never did, nor never shall 323 

This fable is a very short one. 160 

This figure, that thou here seest put... 521 

This is Mab, the mistress Fairy. 150 

This is the house that Jack built. 134 

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets 

feign .. 499 

This little pig went to market. 117 

This palace standeth in the air. 153 

This rose-tree is not made to bear. 47 

This royal throne of Kings, this scep¬ 
tred isle . 322 

Thomas a Tattamus took two T’s. 140 

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew 223 
Thou hast burst from thy prison. .. ... 252 
Thou little bird, thou dweller by the sea 261 


Thou too hast traveled, little fluttering 

thing . 274 

Thou wert out betimes, thou busy, busy 

bee.254 

Though clock. 233 

Three fishers went sailing away to the 

West. 486 

Three little words, you often see. 140 

Three wise men of Gotham. 132 

Three years she grew in sun and shower. 448 

Through the house what busy joy. 14 

Through the silver mist. 179 

Tiger, tiger, burning bright. 266 

Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, ’tis the muffin- 

man you see. 58 

’Tis a lesson you should heed. 48 

’Tis a sad sight. 236 

’Tis sweet to hear. 232 

’Tis sweet to hear the merry lark.268 

’Tis the voice of a sluggard; I heard 

him complain. 47 

’Tis the white anemone, fashioned so.. 225 

To grass or leaf, or fruit or wall. 250 

To market, to market, to buy a fat pig 123 

To sea! to sea! the calm is o’er. 355 

To shoot, to shoot, would be my delight 72 
To the Lords of Convention ’twas 

Claver’se who spoke. 348 

To thee, fair freedom! I retire.516 

To-whit! to-whit! to-whee. 84 

Tom he was the piper’s son. 131 

Tom, Tom, the piper’s son. 131 

Trample! trample! went the roan.496 

Tread lightly here, for here, ’tis said... 275 

Turn, gentle Hermit of this dale.405 

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves.305 

’Twas on a Holy Thursday, their inno¬ 
cent faces clean. 488 

’Twas on a lofty vase’s side. 288 

’Twas the night before Christmas, when 

all through the house.. 79 

’Twas whispered in Heaven, ’twas mut¬ 
tered in hell. 173 

Tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee. 131 

Twenty froggies went to school. 94 

Twinkle, twinkle little star. 16 

Two legs sat upon three legs. 141 

Two Robin Redbreasts built their nest 20 

U 

Under a spreading chestnut tree.246 

Under my window, under my window.. 64 

Under the greenwood tree. 210 

LTnder the wide and starry sky. 521 

Underneath a huge oak tree. 162 

Up from the meadows rich with corn..358 
Up from the South, at break of day... 363 

Up in the morning’s no for me. 193 

Up into the cherry tree. 102 









































































Index of First Lines 543 


Up! quit thy bower, late wears the hour 179 

Up the airy mountain. 146 

Up! up! let us a voyage take. 357 

Up, up! ye dames and lasses gay.229 

Upon a great black horse-ily. 117 

V, 

Very high in the pine-tree. 23 

Voice of summer, keen and shrill.252 

W. 

Waken, lords and ladies gay.228 

We are little airy creatures. 173 

We built a ship upon the stairs. 102 

We had a pleasant walk to-day. 197 

We watch for the light of the morn to 

break. 254 

We were not many, we who stood_354 

Wearied arm and broken sword. 344 

Web-spinner was a miser old.256 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flower... 221 
Wee, sleekit, cow’rin’, tim’rous beastie 249 

Welcome, maids of honour. 215 

Welcome, pale Primrose! starting up 

between . 216 

Welcome, wild north-easter. 201 

Were I to name, out of the times gone 

by .... 5 j 6 

West wind, blow from your prairie nest 518 

We’ve Foxgloves in our garden. 99 

What a sharp little fellow is Mister Fly 255 
What are little boys made of, made of 129 

What does little birdie say... 64 

What fairings will ye that I bring.369 

What have I done for you.. 328 

What pleasure have great princes.519 

What way does the Wind come? What 

way does he go. 45 

When a Twister a twisting will twist 

him a twist... 178 

When all the world is young, lad.498 

When, as the garish day is done. 198 

When captains courageous, whom death 

could not daunt. 39 1 

When cats run home and light is come 276 

When daffodils begin to peer. 480 

When freedom, from her mountain 

height .. • 346 

When good King Arthur ruled this 

land. 116 

When I grow up I mean to go. 100 

When I kneel down my prayers to say 454 
When I was a bachelor. 138 


When I was down beside the sea. 101 

When I was sick and lay a-bed. 102 

When icicles hang by the wall. 201 

When little Birdie bye-bye goes... 112 

When maidens such as Hester die.... 442 
When nature had made all her birds... 280 


When red hath set the beamless sun... 212 
When Sarah’s papa was from home a 


great way . 59 

When Solomon was reigning in his 

glory. 389 

When that I was and a little tiny boy.. 480 
When the arts in their infancy were... 160 

When the British warrior queen. 329 

When the frost is on the punkin and 

the fodder’s in the shock. 206 

When the green woods laugh with the 

voice of joy. 476 

When the toys are growing weary.... 113 
When the voices of children are heard 

on the green. 478 

When the wind is in the east. 144 

When William asked, how veal was 
made . 25 


Where are you going, my pretty maid.. 128 
Where did you come from, baby dear 13 
Where do you come from, Mr. Jay.... 19 

Where is the true man’s fatherland.... 319 
Where southern suns and winds prevail 258 


Where the bee sucks, there suck 1 . 254 

Where the pools are bright and deep.. 209 

Where the remote Bermudas ride. 365 

Which is the way to Baby-land. 18 

Which way does the wind blow. 203 

While shepherds watched their flocks 

by night . 464 

While the blue is richest. 157 

Whither, ’midst falling dew. 284 

Who comes here. 131 

Who has seen the wind. 30 

Who is Silvia? What is she. 436 

Who killed Cock Robin. 120 

Who remains in London. 517 

Who would true valour see. 498 

Who’ll come and play with me here 

under the tree. 90 

Why is Pussy in bed. 121 

Why not open your eyes. 75 

Why weep ye by the tide, ladie. 416 

Will you take a walk with me.. -.. 31 

“ Will you walk into my parlour? ” said 

the spider to the fly. 37 

Winter is cold-hearted. 65 

With lifted feet, hands still. 43 

With sweetest milk and sugar first.... 266 

With the apples and the plums. 85 

Within the precincts of this yard. 61 

Woodman, spare that tree. 492 

Worn with the battle of Stamford town 323 
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night 113 

Y. 

“Yaup, yaup, yaup!” . 29 

Ye field flowers! the gardens eclipse 
you, ’tis true. 218 








































































544 


Index of First Lines 


Ye have been fresh and green. 213 

Ye Mariners of England. 327 

Ye say they all have passed away. 345 

Yonder in the heather there’s a bed for 

sleeping . 518 

“ You are old, Father William,” the 

young man cried. 401 

You bells in the steeple, ring, ring out 

your changes. 478 

You know, we French stormed Ratisbon 351 


You must wake and call me early, call 

me early, mother dear. 438 

You see, merry Phillis, that dear little 

maid . 144 

You spotted snakes with double tongues 152 
You taught me ways of gracefulness 

and fashions of address. 435 

You think it’s only a garden. 99 

Young lambs to sell. 123 

Young Romilly through Barden Woods 391 













Index of Titles 


A. B. C. 

A-Hunting We Will Go. 

A Was an Apple-Pie. 

Abou Ben Adhem . 

Address to a Child During a Boisterous Winter 

Evening . 

Agincourt . 

Alice Fell . 

Allan Water. 

Almond Blossom . 

America . 

American Flag, The . 

Anger . 

Annabelle Lee . 

Annie Laurie . 

Another Charm. 

Another Plum-Cake . 

Answer to a Child’s Question. 

Ant and the Cricket, The . 

Apple Howling Songs, Two . 

Apple Orchard in the Spring, An. 

Apple-Seed John . 

Armada, The . 

Arming of Pigwiggen, The. 

Around the World . 

Arrow and the Song, The . 

As I Walked by Myself. 

As I was Going to St. Ives. 

As Tommy Snooks . 

At the Seaside. 

Auld House, The . 

Author of the “ Pobble,” The. 

Autumn . 


Eliza Cook . 174 

Henry Fielding . 228 

Unknown . 114 

Leigh Hunt .494 

Dorothy Wordsworth . 45 

Unknown . 320 

William Wordsworth . 413 

Matthew Gregory Lewis . 408 

Edwin Arnold . 218 

Samuel Francis Smith . 347 

Joseph Rodman Drake .. 346 

Charles and Mary Lamb . 47 

Edgar Allan Poe .446 

William Douglas of Fleugland.. 427 

Robert Herrick . 150 

Jane Taylor . 71 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge . 490 

Unknown . 42 

Unknown . 92 

William Martin . 194 

Lydia Maria Child . 166 

Thomas Babington Macaulay _330 

Michael Drayton . 154 

Kate Greenaway . 144 

Henry Wadszvorth Longfellow.. 476 

Unknozvn . 124 

Unknown . 141 

Unknozvn . 116 

Robert Louis Stevenson . 101 

Caroline Nairne . 244 

Edward Lear . 291 

Percy Bysshe Shelley . 198 


B 

Ba, Ba, Black Sheep. 

Babes in the Wood, The. 

Baby . 

Baby-Land . 

Baby at Play. 

Baby May. 

Baby Seed Song. 

Bailiff’s Daughter of Islington, The. 

Ballad of Earl Haldan’s Daughter. 

Barbara Allen’s Cruelty. 

Barbara Frietchie. 

Barber, Barber, Shave a Pig....... 


Unknown . no 

Unknown . 3&7 

George Macdonald . 13 

George Cooper . 

Unknozvn . 130 

William Cox Bennett . 241 

Edith Nesbit . 223 

Unknown . 4°7 

Charles Kingsley . 401 

Unknown ... 4 2 3 

John Greenleaf Whittier . 358 

Unknozvn . I 3 2 
























































































546 


Index of Titles 


Barber Shaved the Mason, The. Unknown . . 132 

Barefoot Boy, The. John Greenleaf Whittier . 81 

Barley-Mowers’ Song, The. Mary Howitt . 207 

Bartholomew . Norman Gale . 13 

Bat, Bat, Come Under My Hat. Unknown . 119 

Bathing . John Keble . 210 

Battle Hymn of the Republic. Julia Ward Howe . 348 

Battle of Blenheim, The. Robert Southey . 396 

Battle of Hohenlinden, The. Thomas Campbell . 349 

Battle of the Baltic, The. Thomas Campbell . 335 

Beasts, Birds and Fishes. Adelaide O'Keeffe . 52 

Beasts in the Tower, The. Charles and Mary Lamb . 61 

Beau’s Reply . William Cowper . 260 

Bed, A. Unknoivn . 140 

Bed in Summer . Robert Louis Stevenson . 101 

Bee, The . Emily Dickinson . 253 

Beggar Maid, The. Alfred Tennyson . 436 

Beggar, to Mab the Fairy Queen, The. Robert Herrick . 151 

Bells, The . Edgar Allan Poe .500 

Bell’s Dream . Frederick Edward Weatherly ... 291 

Bessy Bell and Mary Gray. Unknown . 131 

Beth Gelert . William Robert Spencer 

Betty .Pringle Had a Little Pig. Unknown . 

Big and Little Things. Alfred H. Miles 


Bind-Weed 

Bird, The . William Allingham 

Bird-Catcher, The . Elizabeth Turner .. 

Bird Let Loose in Eastern Skies, The. Thomas Moore . 

Birdie. Eliza Lee Follen . 

Birds in Summer . Mary Howitt . 

Bird’s Nest, The. Elizabeth Turner . 

Birds of Passage, The. Felicia Dorothea Hemans. 

Birthdays . Unknown .. 

Blackbird, The. Alfred Tennyson 


402 
130 
44 

Susan Coolidge . 225 

267 

53 
461 
24 
86 
21 
273 

115 

270 


Blind Beggar’s Daughter of Bethnal Green, The.... Unknown . 371 

Blind Highland Boy, The. William Wordsworth 

Blind Men and the Elephant, The. John Godfrey Saxe . 

Blood Horse, The . Barry Cornwall . 

Blossom, The . William Blake . 

Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind. William Shakespeare 

Blow, Wind, Blow. Unknoivn . 

Bluebell, The. Emily Bronte . 

Blue Bells of Scotland, The. Unknown 


. 243 

. 497 

. 264 

.212 

. 505 

. 137 

.. 219 

. 341 

Blue Boy in London, The. William Brighty Rands . 62 

Boadicea . William Cowper . 329 

Bobby Shaftoe’s Gone to Sea. Unknown . 137 

Bobolinks, The . Christopher Pearse Cranch . 280 

Bonnie Dundee. Walter Scott . 348 

Book, A. Hannah More . 173 

Boy and His Top, The. John Hookham Frere . 158 

Boy and the Angel, The. Robert Browning . 493 

Boy and the Parrot, The. John Hookham Frere . 158 


Boy and the Wolf, The. John Hookham Frere. 

Boy in the Wilderness, The. Samuel Taylor Coleridge 

Boy’s Mother, A . James Whitcomb Riley ... 

Boy’s Song, A. James Hogg . 

Brave News Is Come. Unknown . 

Break, Break, Break,. Alfred Tennyson . 

Breakfast. Charles and Mary Lamb. 


159 

474 

106 

209 

143 

513 

84 























































































































547 


Index of Titles 


Brightest and Best of the Sons of the Morning. Reginald Heber . 

Brook, 1 he... Alfred Tennyson . 

Brook in Y\ inter, lhe. James Russell Lowell .. 

Brown of Ossawatomie. John Greenleaf Whittier 

Brown lhrush, The . Lucy Larcom . 

Bruce to His Army. Robert Burns . 

Bunches of Grapes. Walter Ramal }> . 

Burial of Moses, The. Cecil Frances Alexander 

Burial of Sir John Moore, The. Charles Wolfe . 

Buttercups and Daisies . Mary Howitt . 

Butterfly’s Ball, The. William Roscoe . 

Butterfly’s First Flight, The. Unknown . 

Butterfly’s Funeral, The.. Unknown . 

By the Moon We Sport and Play. John Lyly . 

Bye, Baby Bunting. Unknown . 


464 

189 

192 

360 

92 

342 

62 

469 

332 

217 

35 
252 

36 
149 
108 


c 

Camel’s Nose, The .. 

Canary, The. 

Candle, A . 

Cane-Bottomed Chair, The. 

Captain Reece . 

Captain Stood on the Carronade, The. 

Carrion Crow Sat on an Oak, A. 

Casabianca . 

Castle-Builder, The . 

Cat Came Fiddling Out of a Barn, A. 

Cat to Her Kittens, A. 

Cataract of Lodore, The. 

Cavalier’s Escape, The . 

Cavalier’s Song, The. 

Cavern and the Hut, The. 

Ceremonies for Christmas. 

Ceremony for Candlemas Day, A. 

Chaffinch’s Nest at Sea, The. 

Chambered Nautilus, The. 

Chanticleer . 

Character of a Happy Life. 

Charge of the Light Brigade, The. 

Charm, A . 

Chartless . 

Cherry, A . 

Cherry Ripe. 

Children’s Hour, The. 

Child’s Evening Prayer. 

Child’s Evening Prayer, A. 

Child’s Grace, A. 

Child’s Hymn of Praise, A. 

Child’s Morning Prayer, A. 

Child’s Prayer, A. 

Child’s Song in Spring. 

Child’s Talk in April. 

Child’s Thought of God, A. 

Chimney Swallows. 

Chloe . 

Choosing a Name. 

Chorus of Frogs, The. 

Christmas Carol . 


..Lydia Huntly Sigourney . 174 

. .Elizabeth Turner . 30 

. .Unknown . 178 

..William Makepeace Thackeray.. 242 

..William Schzvenck Gilbert .286 

. .Frederick Marry at . 361 

..Unknown . 119 

..Felicia Dorothea Hemans . 333 

..Jean de La Fontaine . 69 

.. Unknown . 117 

..Elisa Grove . 30 

..Robert Southey . 187 

..Walter Thornbury . 496 

..William Motherwell . 366 

. .John Hookham Frere . 159 

..Robert Herrick . 239 

..Robert Herrick . 237 

..William Cowper . 283 

..Oliver Wendell Holmes . 499 

. .Katharine Tynan Hinkson .285 

..Jlenry Wotton .490 

..Alfred Tennyson . 336 

..Robert Herrick . 150 

..Emily Dickinson .462 

. .Unknown . 140 

..Robert Herrick . 434 

..Henry Wadsivorth Longfellozv.. 80 

..Samuel Taylor Coleridge . 473 

..Mary Lundie Duncan . 472 

..Robert Herrick . 455 

-..Jane Taylor .454 

..Mary Lundie Duncan .454 

. .M. Betham Edwards .472 

.. Edith Nesbit . 53 

. .Christina Georgina Rossetti .263 

. .Elisabeth Barrett Browning .456 

..Horatio Nelson Powers . 261 

..Robert Burns .449 

..Charles and Mary Lamb . 12 

. .Ann Hawkshawe . 29 

. .Unknown . 463 
















































































































548 


Index of Titles 


Christmas Hymn, A. Alfred Domett . 

Christmas in the Olden Time. Walter Scott . 

City Child, The. Alfred Tennyson .. 

City Mouse and the Garden Mouse, The. Christina Georgina Rossetti. 

Cleanliness . Charles and Mary Lamb - 

Cloud, The. Percy Bysshe Shelley . 

Clocking Hen, The . Ann Hawkshawe . 

Cock A Doodle Doo. Unknown . 

Columbriad, The. William Cowper . 

Columbus . Lydia Huntly Sigourney - 

Come Here, Little Robin. Unknown . 

Come Hither, Little Puppy-Dog. Unknown . 

Come, Let’s to Bed.. Unknozun . 

Come, Little Leaves. George Cooper . 

Come Unto These Yellow Sands. William Shakespeare . 

Common Things . Ann Hawkshawe . 

Conclusion to the May Queen and New Year’s Eve.. Alfred Tennyson . 

Concord Hymn . Ralph Waldo Emerson . 

Contentment. Edward Dyer . 

Cornfields . Mary Howitt . 

Corn Song, The. John Greenleaf Whittier.... 

Cottager and His Landlord, The . William Cowper . 

Cottager to Her Infant, The. Dorothy Wordsworth . 

Counting Out . Unknown . 

Country Faith, The . Norman Gale . 

Country Parson, The. Oliver Goldsmith . 

Courtship, Merry Marriage and Picnic Dinner of 

Cock Robin and Jenny Wren, The. Unknown . 

Courtship of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo, The. Edzvard Lear . 

Cow, The . Jane Taylor . 

Cow and the Ass, The. Jane Taylor . 

Cradle Song, A . Isaac Watts . 

Creation, The .. Cecil Frances Alexander _ 

Cricket, The. William Cowper . 

Crocus, The . Mary Elliott . 

Cross Patch . Unknown . 

Crumbs to the Birds. Charles and Mary Lamb.... 

Crust of Bread, The. Unknown . 

Cuckoo is a Fine Bird, The. Unknown . 

Curly Locks. Unknown . 


D 


Daffy-Down-Dilly . 

Daisy, The . 

Daisy’s Song, The. 

Dame Duck’s First Lecture on Education. 

Dance, Little Baby. 

Dance My Baby Diddy. \... 

Dancing Lesson, The .. 

Deacon’s Masterpiece, or the Wonderful “ 

Shay,” The . 

Dearest Poets, The . 

Death of Master Tommy Rook, The. 

Death of the Flowers, The. 

Death of the Old Year. 

December . 

Deeds of Kindness. 

Deserted Village, The. 


. Anna R. Warner . 

.. James Montgomery _ 

. John Keats . 

. Ann Hazvkshazve . 

. Unknown . 

. Unknozon . 

. Eliza Grove . 

One-Hoss 

. Olwer Wendell Holmes 

. Leigh Hunt . 

. Eliza Cook . 

. William Cullen Bryant. 

.. Alfred Tennyson . 

. John Keats . 

. Epes Sargent . 

. Oliver Goldsmith . 













































































































Index of Titles 


549 


Dessert, The. 

Destruction of Sennacherib, The.’ 

Diddledy, Diddledy, Dumpty. 

Dillar, a Dollar, A. 

Ding, Dong, Bell. 

Dispute Between Nose and Eyes. 

Diverting History of John Gilpin, The. 

Doctor Faustus Was a Good Man. 

Dog of Reflection, The. 

Doll’s House, The. 

Dream of a Girl Who Lived at Seven Oaks, The... 

Dreamer, The . 

Dustman, The . 

Dying Swan, The. 


Charles and Mary Lamb . 

George Gordon Byron . 

Unknown . 

Unknown . 

Unknown .. 

William Cow per . 

William Cowper . 

Unknozvn . 

Jeffreys Taylor . 

Anna Letitia Barbauld . 

Williatn Brighty Rands . 

“ Walter Ramal” . 

Frederick Edward Weatherly... 
Alfred Tennyson .. 


85 

323 

119 
137 

120 
1 77 
306 
116 
170 

94 

89 

499 

113 

281 


E 

Eagle, The . 

Early Rising. 

Earth and Man, The. 

Echoing Green, The. 

Edwin and Angelina... 

Egg, An. 

Elegy on the Death of a Mad Dog, An. 

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. 

Elizabeth, Lizzy, Betsy and Bess. 

Elsie Marley Is Grown So Fine. 

Employment . 

England I. 

England II . 

England, My England.. 

Envy. 

Epitaph, An . 

Epitaph on a Robin Redbreast, An. 

Escape at Bedtime. 

Eve of the Battle of Waterloo, The. 

Evening . 

Evening Hymn . 

Evening Red and Morning Gray. 

Evening Song. 

Evening Song.... 

Everywhere, Everywhere Christmas To-Night 
Excelsior. 


..Alfred Tennyson . 258 

..Lady Flora Hastings . 11 

. .Stopford Augustus Brooke .497 

.. William Blake . 231 

..Oliver Goldsmith . 405 

. .Unknozvn . 140 

. .Oliver Goldsmith . 288 

..Thomas Gray . 510 

. .Unknown . 140 

. .Unknown . 129 

..Jane Taylor . 90 

.. William Shakespeare . 322 

.. William Shakespeare . 323 

.. William Ernest Henley . 328 

..Charles and Mary Lamb . 47 

..William Cowper . 261 

. .Samuel Rogers . 275 

.. Robert Louis Stevenson . 103 

. .George Gordon Byron . 337 

. .George Gordon Byron . 180 

..Cecil Frances Alexander .473 

.. Unknown . 142 

..Cecil Frances Alexander . 471 

. .John Fletcher . 180 

..Phillips Brooks . 458 


Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.. 491 


F 

Fair Helen of Kirconnel. 

Fairies, The . 

Fairies of the Caldon-Low, The. 

Fairies’ Recall . 

Fairy Boy, The. 

Fairy Folk, The . 

Fairy in Armor, A. 

Fairyland . 

Fairy Song. 

Fairy Tempter, The. 

Farewell, A . 

Farewell, A . 

Farewell to the Farm. 


,Unknozvn . 

, William Allingham . 

.Mary IJowitt . 

.Felicia Dorothea Hemans 

.Samuel Lover . 

.Robert Bird . 

.Joseph Rodman Drake .. 

.Edgar Allan Poe . 

.John Keats . 

.Samuel Lover . 

. Charles Kingsley . 

.Alfred Tennyson . 

.Robert Louis Stevenson.. 


422 

146 
155 
LS7 
153 
157 

147 
147 
149 
153 
452 
5L3 

105 









































































































55° 


Index of Titles 


Farm, The . 

Farmer Went Trotting, A. 

Farmer’s Round, The. 

Fate of the Oak, The. 

Father Is Coming. 

Father William . 

Fatherland, The . 

Fiddle-De-Dee. 

Field Flowers . 

Fine Day, A. 

First Swallow, The. 

First Tooth, The . 

Five Nonsense Verses. 

Flowers . 

Flowers, The . 

Fly, The. 

Foolish Emily and Her Kitten. 

Foolish Flowers . 

For A’ That, and A’ That. 

For Every Evil Under the Sun. 

For Want of a Nail. 

Forbearance ... 

Foreign Lands. 

Forsaken Merman, The. 

Founding of Bolton Priory, The. 

Fountain, The . 

Fountain of the Fairies, The. 

Four and Twenty Tailors. 

Fox at the Point of Death, The. 

Fox Jumped Up On a Moonlight Night, The 

Freddie and the Cherry Tree. 

Frog He Would A-Wooing Go, A. 

From Greenland’s Icy Mountains. 

Frost, The. 

Full Fathom Five . 


Jane Taylor . 

, Unknown . 

Unknown . 

Barry Cornwall . 

Mary Howitt . 

Robert Southey . 

Janies Russell Lowell .. 

Unknown . 

Thomas Campbell . 

Michael Drayton . 

Charlotte Smith . 

Charles and Mary Lamb 

Edward Lear . 

Thomas Hood . 

Unknown . 

William Blake . 

Adelaide O’Keeffe . 

Rupert Sargent Holland 

Robert Burns . 

Unknown . 

Unknown . 

Ralph Waldo Emerson . 
Robert Louis Stevenson. 

Matthew Arnold . 

William Wordsworth ... 
James Russell Lowell .. 

Robert Southey . 

Unknown . 

John Gay . 

Unknozvn . 

Ann Hawkshawe . t .. 

Unknown . 

Reginald Heber . 

Hannah Flagg Gould .. 
William Shakespeare ..., 


56 

139 

63 

224 

240 

401 

319 

123 

218 

191 

274 

14 

3 ii 

226 

20 

255 

75 

99 

321 

141 

141 

490 

102 

481 

39i 

187 

148 

123 

168 

121 

89 

118 

468 

204 

507 


G 

Garden, A. 

Gardening . 

Gardener, The. 

Gardener’s Song, The. 

Gay Go Up. 

Gentle Jesus, Meek and Mild. 

George and the Chimney Sweeper. 

Gibraltar . 

Girl and Her Fawn, The. 

Girls and Boys Come Out to Play. 

Gladness of Nature, The. 

Glove and the Lions, The. 

Glow-Worms, The. 

God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen. 

God’s Judgment on a Wicked Bishop. 

Going A-Maying. 

Going Down Hill on a Bicycle. 

Going Into Breeches. 

Going to Bed at Night. 

Golden Slumbers Kiss Your Eyes. 

Good and Bad Children. 


Percy Bysshe Shelley... 

John Keble . 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 

Lezvis Carroll . 

Unknown . 

Charles Wesley . 

Adelaide O’Keeffe . 

Wilfred Scawen Blunt . 

Andrew Marvell . 

Unknozvn . 

William Cullen Bryant.. 

Leigh Hunt . 

Ann Hawkshawe . 

Dinah Maria Mulock ... 

Robert Southey . 

Robert Herrick . 

Henry Charles Beeching 
Charles and Mary Lamb 

Adelaide O’Keeffe . 

Thomas Dekker . 

Robert Louis Stevenson. 


213 

214 
106 
305 
135 
458 

70 

362 

266 

134 

184 

429 

26 

463 

165 

214 


100 
112 
104 


















































































































Index of Titles 


55» 


Good Girl, The . 

Good King Wenceslas . 

Good-Morning . 

Good-Night .’ 

Good-Night . 

Good-Night and Good-Morning. 

Good Play, A. 

Goosey, Goosey Gander. 

Gourd and the Palm, The. 

Grammar in Rhyme. 

Grass, The . 

Grasshopper, The. 

Grasshopper and the Cricket, The... 

Great Brown Owl, The. 

Greedy Piggy that Ate too Fast, The 

Green Linnet, The . 

Green Things Growing. 

Gypsy Girl, The . 


.Elizabeth Turner . 

John Neal . 

Joanna Baillie . 

Joanna Baillie . 

Jane Taylor . 

Lord Houghton . 

Robert Louis Stevenson 

.Unknown . 

Unknown . 

Unknown . 

.Emily Dickinson . 

Abraham Cowley . 

John Keats . 

Ann Hawkshawe . 

Eliza Grove ...... 

William Wordsworth . 
Dinah Maria Mulock ., 
Henry Alford . 


94 

466 

179 

182 

112 

11 

102 

120 

163 

140 

219 

251 

251 

26 

33 

277 

215 

447 


H 

Hag, The . 

Hame, Hame, Hame. 

Handy Spandy, Jack-a-Dandy. 

Happy Child, A . 

Happy Thought . 

Hark, Hark . 

Hark, Plark the Lark. 

Hart He Loves the High Wood, The. 

Haunted Palace, The. 

Have You Seen a Bright Lily Grow. 

Hawking Party in the Olden Time, A. 

He That Would Thrive.. 

Heart’s Content. 

Hearts, Like Doors. 

Hector Protector . 

Here Sits the Lord Mayor. 

Here We Go Up.. 

Here’s a Poor Widow from Babylon. 

Heritage, The . 

Herve Riel . 

Hester . 

Hey Diddle, Dinkety. 

Hey, My Kitten. 

Hi! Diddle Diddle. 

Hickory, Dickory, Dock. 

Hidden Mermaids, The. 

Hie Away. 

Higglepy, Piggleby. 

Highland Cattle . 

His Grange, or Private Wealth. 

Hock-Cart, The. 

Holy, Holy, Holy. 

Holy Thursday . 

Home Song . 

Home, Sweet Home . 

Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead.... 
Home Thoughts from Abroad. 


.Robert Herrick . 155 

.Allan Cunningham . 232 

,Unknozvn . 134 

.Kate Greenazvay . 145 

.Robert Louis Stevenson . 103 

,Unknown . 120 

. William Shakespeare . 179 

,Unknozvn . 122 

.Edgar Allan Poe . 503 

.Ben Jons on . 436 

.Mary Hozvitt . 230 

.Unknown . 141 

Unknown . 243 

, Unknozvn . 144 

Unknown . 137 

.Unknozvn . 139 

.Unknown . 123 

Unknown . 126 

James Russell Lowell . 318 

Robert Browning . 409 

Charles Lamb . 442 

Unknozvn . 142 

Unknozvn . 123 

Unknozvn . 120 

Unknozvn . 137 

“ Walter Ramal ” . 487 

Walter Scott . 227 

Unknozvn . 120 

Dinah Maria Mulock . 211 

Robert Herrick . 233 

Robert Herrick . 209 

Reginald Heber . 439 

William Blake . 488 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellozv .. 231 

John Howard Payne . 233 

Alfred Tennyson . 496 

Robert Browning . 325 
















































































































552 


Index of Titles 


Home Thoughts from the Sea. Robert Browning . 326 

Horned Owl, The. Barry Cornwall . 276 

Hot-Cross Buns . Unknown . 124 

Housekeeper, The . Charles Lamb . 250 

How-D’-Y’-Do and Good-Bye . William Robert Spencer . 176 

How Doth the Little Busy Bee. Isaac Watts . 17 

How Sleep the Brave. William Collins . 321 

How Sweet I Roamed. William Blake . 487 

How the Leaves Came Down. “Susan Coolidge” . 58 

How the Little Kite Learned to Fly. Unknown . 42 

How They Brought the Good News from Ghent to 

Aix . Robert Browning . 352 

How to Write a Letter. Elizabeth Turner . 97 

Humble-Bee, The. Ralph Waldo Emerson . 248 

Humming-Bird, The . Mary Howitt . 282 

Humpty Dumpty. Unknown . 134 

Hunter’s Song, The. Barry Cornwall . 228 

Hunting Song . Walter Scott . 228 

Hunt is Up, The... Unknozvn . 229 

Hush-a-bye, Baby. Unknown . 108 

Hush Thee, My Babby. Unknozvn . 112 

Hymn for Christmas. Felicia Dorothea Piemans . 454 

Hymn for Christmas Day, A. Thomas Chatterton . 464 

Hymn to the Night. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.. 182 

Hymn to the North Star. William Cullen Bryant . 182 


I 


I Had a Dove. 

I Had a Little Doggy. 

I Had a Little Husband. 

I Had a Little Nut Tree. 

1 Had a Little Pony. 

I Love Little Pussy. 

I Love My Jean. 

I Love Sixpence. 

I Must Not Tease My Mother. 

I Remember . 

I Saw a Ship A-Sailing... 

I Saw Three Ships. 

I Stood Tiptoe Upon a Little Hill. 

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud. 

If All the World Were Apple Pie. 

If I Had as Much Money as I Could Spend 

If I Had But Two Little Wings. 

If No One Ever Marries Me. 

Tf Wishes Were Horses. 

I’ll Tell You a Story. 

In City Streets. 

Jnchcape Rock, The. 

Incident of the French Camp. 

Indian Names . 

Infant Joy. 

Ingle-Side, The. 

Invitation, The . 

Ts John Smith Within. 

Isles of Greece, The. 

Ivry. 


John Keats . 271 

Unknown . 139 

Unknown . 135 

Unknozvn . 124 

Unknown . 120 

Jane Taylor . 15 

Robert Burns . 449 

Unknown . 125 

Lydia Huntly Sigourney . 13 

Thomas flood . 474 

Unknown . 124 

Unknozvn . 467 

John Keats . 213 

William Wordszvorth . 222 

Unknozvn . 124 

Unknown . 125 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge . 499 

Laurence Alma-Tadema . 100 

Unknown . 141 

Unknown . 124 

Ada Smith . 518 

Robert Southey . 397 

Robert Browning . 351 

Lydia Huntly Sigourney . 345 

William Blake . 12 

Hew Ainslee . 235 

Percy Bysshe Shelley _*.515 

Unknown . 124 

George Gordon Byron . 322 


Thomas Babington Macaulay... 326 

r 












































































































Index of Titles 


553 


Jabberwocky. 

Jack and Jill . 

Jackdaw, The.’ * ’ * ’ 

Jackdaw of Rheims, The. . . . . 

Jack Frost. 

jack Horner. 

jack-in-the-Pulpit.* 

Jack Sprat .. 

Jaffar . 

jenny Wren . 

Jest ’Fore Christmas. 

Jock of Hazeldean. 

John Anderson . 

Johnny Shall Have a New Bonnet 

Jovial Welshmen, The . 

Joy of Life. 

Julia . 

Jumblies, The . 


, Lewis Carroll . 

.Unknown . 

, William Cowper . 

,Richard Harris Barham 

,Gabriel Setoun . 

Unknown . 

Rupert Sargent Holland 

Unknown . 

Leigh Hunt . 

Unknown . 

Eugene Field . 

Walter Scott . 

Robert Burns .. 

Unknown . 

Unknown . 

Mary Russell Mitford .. 

Robert Herrick . 

Edward Lear . 


305 
135 
264 
299 
66 
142 
99 
135 
428 
117 
316 
416 
489 
108 
214 

185 

451 

289 


K 

Kearney at Seven Pines. 

Kid, The. 

Kindness to Animals. 

King Bruce and the Spider. 

King Canute .'. 

King Edwin’s Feast. 

King John and the Abbot of Canterbury. 

Kitten at Play, The. 

Kubla Khan. 


Edmund Clarence Stedman _341 


William Slienstone . 267 

Unknown . 

Eliza Cook . 48 

William Makepeace Thackeray.. 411 

John W. Chadwick . 377 

Unknown . 430 

William Wordsworth . 258 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge . 502 


L 

L’Allegro (Extracts) . 

La Belle Dame Sans Merci. 

Lady-Bird . 

Lady Clare . 

Lady Moon. 

Lady of Shalott, The. 

Lady of the Lake, Lines from the. 

Lamb, The . 

Lamb, The . 

Lamb, The . 

Lament of the Border Widow, The. 

Lamplighter, The . 

Land of Counterpane, The. 

Land of Story Books, The. 

Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers, The. 

Lark and the Nightingale, The. 

Lark and the Rook, The. 

Laughing Song .. 

Lay of the Last Minstrel, The. 

Leak in the Dike, The. 

Legend of the Northland, A. 

Let Dogs Delight to Bark and Bite. 

Letter, The. 

Letters at School, The... 


.John Milton . 

.John Keats . 

, Unknown . 

,Alfred Tennyson . 

Lord Houghton . 

.Alfred Tennyson . 

, Walter Scott . 

Kate Greenazvay . 

Unknoivn . 

William Blake . 

Unknown . 

Robert Louis Stevenson . 
Robert Louis Stevenson . 
Robert Louis Stevenson . 
Felicia Dorothea Hemans 

Hartley Coleridge . 

Unknown . 

William Blake . 

Walter Scott . 

Phoebe Cary . 

Phoebe Cary . 

Isaac Watts . 

Elizabeth Turner . 

Unknown . 


504 

426 

120 

444 

68 

418 

211 

145 

20 

32 

417 

104 
102 

105 

344 

268 

70 

476 

393 

355 

28 

18 

59 

174 






































































































554 


Index of Titles 


Life of a Fairy, The. 

Light Hearted Fairy, The. 

Light of Stars, The. 

Lines on the Mermaid Tavern. 

Linnet in the Rocky Dells, The. 

Lion, The . 

Lion and the Cub, The. 

Lion and the Mouse, The. 

Lion and the Unicorn, The. 

Little Beach-Bird, The. 

Little Billee . 

Little Bo-Peep. 

Little Boy Blue. 

Little Boy’s Good-Night, The. 

Little Cock-Sparrow Sat on a Green Tree, A 

Little Dandelion . 

Little Hobby-Horse, A. 

Little Jack Horner. 

Little Lamb Went Straying, A. 

Little Miss Muffit. 

Little Orphant Annie. 

Little Polly Flinders. 

Little Rain-Drops . 

Little Sister Left in Charge, The. 

Little Star, The. 

Little Things . 

Little Tom Tucker. 

Little White Lily. 

Lo, the Lilies of the Field. 

Lobster and the Maid, The. 

Lochinvar . 

London Bridge . 

Long White Seam, The. 

Lord Lovel . 

Lord of Burleigh, The. . . 

Lord Ullin’s Daughter . 

Lost Doll, The. 

Lost Lamb, The. 

Lost Playmate, The. 

Lost Sheep, The. 

Lotus-Eaters, The. 

Love Will Find Out the Way. 

Loving and Liking.. 

Lucy... 

Lucy and Colin.... 

Lucy Gray. 

Lucy’s Birthday.. 

Lucy’s Canary.. 

Lullaby, O Lullaby.. 

Lullaby of an Infant Chief. 


.Unknown . 148 

.Unknown . 146 

.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.. 184 

John Keats . 500 

,Emily Bronte . 422 

.Mary Howitt . 265 

John Gay . 169 

Jeffreys Taylor . 171 

.Unknown . 122 

.Richard Henry Dana . 261 

. William Makepeace Thackeray.. 293 

.Unknown . 130 

.Unknown . 131 

.Eliza Eee Follen . 100 

.Unknown . 118 

.Helen Barron Bostzvick . 61 

.Eliza Grove . 33 

.Unknown . 134 

.Albert Midlane . 457 

.Unknown . 129 

James Whitcomb Riley . 314 

.Unknown . 130 

,Ann Hawkshawe . 48 

.Cecil Frances Alexander . 50 

Jane Taylor . 16 

.Ebenezer Cobham Breiver . 50 

Unknown . 131 

George Macdonald . 57 

Reginald Heber . 460 

Frederick Edward Weatherly... 299 

Walter Scott . 395 

Unknown . 136 

Jean Ingelow . 416 

Unknown . 388 

Alfred Tennyson .417 

Thomas Campbell . 428 

Charles Kingsley . 88 

Thomas Westwood . 32 

“ Walter Ramal” . 488 

Elizabeth Cecilia ClepJiane .461 

Alfred Tennyson . 485 

Unknown . 245 

Dorothy Wordsworth . 44 

William Wordsworth .448 

Thomas Tickell . 404 

William Wordsworth .414 

William Makepeace Thackeray.. 435 

Adelaide O’Keeffe . 95 

William Cox Bennett . 109 

Walter Scott . m 


M 

Magpie’s Nest, The. 

Man in the Moon, The. 

Man in the Moon, The. 

Man in the Wilderness, The. 

March. 

March Winds and April Showers. 


Charles and Mary Lamb 
James Whitcomb Riley . 

Unknown . 

Unknown . 

William Cullen Bryant . 
Unknown . 


160 

312 

143 

116 

196 

141 














































































































Index of Titles 


555 


'l 


Marching Song. 

Marching Through Georgia. 

Marien Lee . 

Mary Ambree . 

Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary. 

Mary’s Lamb . 

Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. 

Maud . 

May Queen, The. 

Meg Merrilies . 

Mercy. 

Merry Are the Bells. 

Midwinter. 

Milkmaid, The . 

Miller of the Dee, The. 

Mine Host of the “ Golden Apple ” . 

Minnie and Winnie. 

Minstrel Boy, The. 

Miss Sophia. 

Mister Fly. 

Molly Maguire at Monmouth . 

Monterey. 

Months, The . 

Moon, So Round and Yellow. 

Morning Hymn. 

Morning Hymn. 

Morning Mist, The. 

Mother, May I Go In to Swim. 

Mother to Her Infant, The. 

Mother’s Return, The. 

Mountain and the Squirrel, The. 

Mountain Sprite, The. 

Mouse and the Cake, The. 

Mr. East Gave a Feast. 

Mr. Nobody . 

Muffin-Man’s Bell, The . 

Multiplication is Vexation. 

My Bed is a Boat. 

My Dearest Baby, Go to Sleep. 

My Doves... 

My Early Home. 

My Heart Leaps Up When I Behold 

My Heart’s in the Highlands. 

My Lady Wind . 

My Land. 

My Little Brother. j. 

My Little Sister. 

My Lost Youth. 

My Nannie’s Awa’.*. 

My Native Land. 

My Old Kentucky Home. 

My Peggy. 

My Shadow. 

My Thrush. 


Robert Louis Stevenson . 103 

Henry Clay Work .. 365 

Mary Howitt .450 

Unknown . 391 

Unknown . 130 

Unknown . 137 

Unknown . 136 

Alfred Tennyson .437 

Alfred Tennyson .438 

John Keats .479 

William Shakespeare . 495 

Unknown . 138 

John Townsend Trowbridge .... 205 

Jeffreys Taylor . 170 

Charles Mackay . 489 

Thomas Westwood .221 

Alfred Tennyson . 75 

Thomas Moore . 352 

Elisabeth Turner . 76 

Thomas Miller .255 

William Collins . 350 

Charles Fenno Hoffman . 354 

Sara Coleridge . 194 

Matthias Barr . 139 

Cecil Frances Alexander .453 

Thomas Ken .453 

Robert Southey . 180 

, Unknown . 130 

Thomas Miller . no 

.Dorothy Wordsworth . 16 

Ralph Waldo Emerson . 162 

Thomas Moore . 149 

Elisa Cook . 39 

Unknown . 124 

, Unknown . 101 

Ann Hawkshawe . 58 

Unknown . 115 

.Robert Louis Stevenson . 104 

Thomas Miller . no 

.Elisabeth Barrett Browning .... 271 

.John Clare . 241 

William Wordsworth . 192 

Robert Burns . 343 

Unknozvn . 73 

Thomas Osborne Davis . 333 

Mary Lundie Duncan . 12 

.Unknozvn . 13 

.Henry Wadszvorth Longfellow. . 475 

.Robert Burns . 449 

Walter Scott . 321 

.Stephen Collins Foster . 235 

.Allan Ramsay . 446 

.Robert Louis Stevenson . 102 

.Mortimer Collins . 257 


N 


Names, The 
Narcissus .. 


Charles Lamb .. 
Willia7n Cow per 


434 

222 
















































































































Index of Titles 


Nature . 

Nautilus, The. 

Neatness in Apparel. 

Needle and Thread, A.... 

Needles and Pins. 

Nest, The . 

New Book, The. 

New Moon, The. 

New Year’s Eve. 

Night . 

Night Has a Thousand Eyes, The 

Night-Piece, The . 

Night in the Desert. 

Nightingale, The. 

Nightingale and Glow Worm, The 

Nimble Dick. 

Noble Nature, The. 

Noontide . 

North-East Wind, The.. 

North Wind Doth Blow, The. 

Northern Seas, The.. 

Now and Then. 

Now That Winter’s Gone. 

Now the Day is Over.. 

Nurse’s Song. 

Nursery Song. 


.Henry David Thoreau . 517 

.Charlotte Smith ..'.258 

.Charles and Mary Lamb . 70 

. Unknown . 140 

. Unknown . 141 

.Mary Elliott . 24 

.Elizabeth Turner . 97 

, William Cullen Bryant . 198 

.Alfred Tennyson . 439 

. William Blake . 181 

.Francis William Bourdillon .... 490 

.Robert Herrick . 451 

Robert Southey . 181 

, Richard Barn field . 272 

William Cowper . 164 

Adelaide O'Keeffe . 76 

Ben Jonson . 491 

John Keble . 180 

Charles Kingsley . 201 

Unknown . 15 

William Howitt . 357 

Jane Taylor . 175 

Thomas Carew . 195 

Sabine Baring-Gould . 471 

William Blake .478 

Mrs. Carter . 93 


O 

O Captain! My Captain!. Walt Whitman . 347 

O for a Moon to Light Me Home. “ Walter Ramal” . 506 

O Little Town of Bethlehem. Phillips Brooks . 459 

O Mally’s Meek, Mally’s Sweet. Robert Burns . 448 

Oak, The.Mary Elliott . 54 

Oak and the Beech, The. Thomas Love Peacock . 224 

Oberon’s Feast . Robert Herrick . 152 

October’s Party. George Cooper . 65 

Ode on Solitude. Alexander Pope . 506 

Ode on the Birth of Our Saviour, An. Robert Herrick . 465 

Ode to the Cuckoo. Michael Bruce . 272 

Ode on the Death of a Favourite Cat. Thomas Gray . 288 

Of What Are Your Clothes Made. Jane Taylor . 69 

Oft in the Stilly Night. Thomas Moore . 507 

Oh! Dear! What Can the Matter Be. Unknown . 130 

Oh! Look at the Moon. Eliza Lee Follen . 27 

Oh Where and Oh Where is My Little Wee Dog.. .Unknown . 133 

Oh! Where Do Fairies Hide Their Heads?. Thomas Haynes Bayly . 148 

Old Arm-Chair, The. Eliza Cook . 236 

Old Christmas. Mary Howitt . 237 

Old Clock on the Stairs, The. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.. 234 

Old Grimes. Albert Gorton Greene . 509 

Old Ironsides. Oliver Wendell Holmes . 358 

Old King Cole. Unknown . 116 

. 59 

. 265 

. 128 

. 126 

...». 205 

. 127 


Old Kitchen Clock, The . Ann Hazvkshazve 

O’Lincon Family, The... Wilson Flagg 

Old Mother Goose. Unknown .... 

Old Mother Hubbard . Unknown - 

Old Winter. Thomas Noel 

Old Woman, Old Woman. Unknown .... 















































































































Index of Titles 


557 


On a Spaniel Called “ Beau ” Killing a Young Bird.. William Cowper . 260 

On Another’s Sorrow . William Blake .487 

On First Booking into Chapman’s Homer. John Keats . 489 

On the Birthday of a Young Bady. William Whitehead . 451 

On the Portrait of Shakespeare. Ben Jonson . 521 

On Saturday Night. Unknown . 135 

Once in Royal David’s City. Cecil Frances Alexander . 466 

One Misty, Moisty Morning. Unknown . 125 

One Old Oxford Ox. Unknown . 115 

One, Two . Unknown . 114 

One, Two, Three. H. C. Bunner . 106 

Only a Baby Small . Matthias Barr . 14 

Onward, Christian Soldiers . Sabine Baring-Gould . 467 

Orange, The. Charles and Mary Lamb . 91 

Orphans. William Shakesepare .224 

0 1 -rvB *"»■*'!* r» rr T'B O J .. _ . I II 


Orphan’s Song, The . Sydney Dobell 

Our Hired Girl. James Whitcomb Riley 

Our Mother . Unknown . 

Our Mother Tongue . Lord Houghton . 

Outlaw’s Song, The . Joanna Baillie . 

Over the Water. Unknown . 

Owl, The. Alfred Tennyson . 

Owl and the Pussy Cat, The. Edward Lear . 

Oxfordshire Children’s May Song. Unknown . 


498 

3i3 

82 

322 

430 

135 

276 

302 

92 


P 

Pack, Clouds, Away . 

Pair of Tongs, A . 

Palace of the Fairies, The. 

Palmer, The. 

Parrot, The . 

Pat-a-Cake . 

Peace Be Around Thee. 

Peach, The . 

Pease-Pudding Hot. 

Peddler’s Caravan, The. 

Pemmy Was a Pretty Girl. 

Pet Bamb, The. 

Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater . 

Peter Piper Picked a Peck. 

Peter White. 

Pewee, The. 

Phyllis . 

Piece of Glass and the Piece of Ice, The. 

Pied Piper of Hamelin, The. 

Pilgrim, The . 

Piper, The. 

Piper on the Hill, The. 

Pippa’s Song . 

Playgrounds . 

Pleasant Things . 

Please to Remember. 

Plum Pudding, A.. 

Pobble Who Has No Toes, The. 

Pocahontas . 

Polly. 

Polly, Put the Kettle On. 

Pond, The... 


Thomas Heywood .495 

Unknown . 140 

Michael Drayton . 153 

Walter Scott . 397 

Thomas Campbell . 279 

Unknown . 124 

Thomas Moore . 506 

Charles and Mary Lamb . 91 

Unknown . 123 

William Brighty Rands . 73 

Unknown . 129 

William Wordsworth . 21 

Unknown . 137 

Unknown . 178 

Unknown . 143 

John Townsend Trowbridge . 277 

William Drummond . 451 

John Hookliam Frere . 159 

Robert Brozvning . 293 

John Bunyan . 498 

William Blake . 474 

Dora Sigerson Shorter . 57 

Robert Brozvning . 97 

Laurence Alma-Tadema . 44 

George Gordon Byron . 232 

Unknown . 123 

Unknown . 140 

Edward Lear . 290 

William Makepeace Thackeray .. 344 

William Brighty Rands . 87 

Unknown . 129 

Jane Taylor . 33 
















































































































558 Index of Titles 


Portrait, A . 

Poor Cock Robin. 

Poor Old Robinson Crusoe. 

Poppy* The. 

Prayers . 

Pretty Maid . 

Priest and the Mulberry-Tree, The 
Procession of the Flowers, The... 

Proud Maisie. 

P’s and Q’s. 

Pussy-Cat . 

Pussycat Mole. 

Pussy-Cat, Pussy-Cat . 

Pussicat, Wussicat . 

Pussy Sits Beside the Fire. 


Elizabeth Barrett Browning 

Unknown . 

Unknown . 

Jane Taylor . 

Flora Hastings . 

Unknown . 

Thomas Love Peacock .... 

Sydney Dobell . 

Walter Scott . 

Rupert Sargent Holland 

Ann Hawkshawe . 

Unknown .. 

Unknown . 

Unknown . 

Unknown ., 


443 

120 
116 

25 

454 

129 

303 

195 

446 

98 

19 

123 

121 
116 
142 


Queen Mab . 

Queen Mab . 

Queen Mab .. 

Queen Mab’s Chariot 
Queen of Hearts, The 
Quiet Fife, The. 


Q 

.. Thomas Hood . 

. Ben Jonson . 

. William Shakespeare 

. Michael Drayton _ 

. Unknown . 

. William Byrd . 


98 

250 

150 

151 

137 

512 


R 

Raggedy Man, The. 

Rain Before Seven. 

Rain in Summer. 

Rain it Raineth Every Day, The. 

Rainbow at Night . 

Raven, The. 

Raven, The. 

Ready, Ay, Ready. 

Redbreast Chasing a Butterfly, The. 

Reformation of Godfrey Gore, The. 

Requiem. 

Retired Cat, The . 

“ Revenge,” The . 

Reverie of Poor Susan, The. 

Rhodora, The . 

Riddle, A . 

Riddle, A . 

Ride a Cock-Horse to Banbury Cross. 

Rime of the Ancient Mariner, The. 

Ring Out Wild Bells. 

Robin and Richard Were Two Pretty Men... 

Robin Hood. 

Robin to His Mate, The. 

Robin Redbreast. 

Robin Redbreast... 

Robin Redbreasts, The. 

Rock-a-Bye Baby. 

Rock of Ages . 

Rodney’s Ride .. 

Romance .. 

Romance of the Swan’s Nest, The. 

Rosabelle. 


James Whitcomb Riley .* 312 

,Unknown . 141 

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.. 190 

, William Shakespeare .480 

Unknown . 142 

, Samuel Taylor Coleridge . 162 

Edgar Allan Poe . 483 

Herman Charles Merivale . 320 

William Wordsworth . 275 

William Brighty Rands . 39 

Robert Louis Stevenson . 521 

William Cowper . 259 

Alfred Tennyson . 339 

William Wordsworth . 447 

Ralph Waldo Emerson . 226 

Catherine Maria Fanshawe . 173 

Jonathan Swift . 173 

Unknozvn . 129 

Samuel Taylor Coleridge . 379 

Alfred Tennyson . 514 

Unknown . 134 

Unknozvn . 133 

Mrs. Carter . 94 

William Allingham . 271 

Unknown . 138 

Ann Hawkshawe . 20 

Unknown . 108 

Augustus Montague Toplady.... 456 

Elbridge S. Brooks ...378 

Gabriel Setoun . '90 

Elizabeth Barrett Browning . 408 

Walter Scott . 424 










































































































559 


Rose, The . 

Rose Aylmer . 

Rosebud, A. 

Rowley Powley. 

Rub-a-Dub-Dub . 

Rudeness.. 

Rule for Birds’ Nesters, A 
Ruth . 


Index of Tides 

. William Browne . 

.. Walter Savage Landor 

.. Robert Burns . 

... Unknown . 

. Unknown . 

. Elizabeth Turner . 

.. Unknozvn . 

. Thomas Hood . 


226 

43b 

2i6 

133 

137 

72 

61 

447 


Sands of Dee, The. Charles Kingsley . 444 

Saw Ye Never in the Meadows. Cecil Frances Alexander . 469 

Saxon Grit .. Robert Collyer . 323 

Sea, The . Barry Cornwall . 354 

Sea-Mew, The. Elizabeth Barrett Browning . 284 

Secrets of Our Garden, The.. Rupert Sargent Holland . 99 

See, Saw, Margery Daw. Unknown . 129 

See-Saw Sacradown . Unknown . 142 

Seein’ Things . Eugene Field . 315 

September . Mary Howitt . 199 

Seven Sisters, The. William Wordsworth . 415 

Seven Times One. Jean Inge low . 87 

Seven Times Two . Jean Ingelow . 478 

Shadows, The . Mary Eundie Duncan . 46 

Shakespeare . Matthew Arnold . 520 

She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways. William Wordsworth . 437 

She Walks in Beauty. George Gordon Byron . 450 

She Was a Phantom of Delight. William Wordsworth .437 

Sheep, The . Ann Taylor . 21 

Shepherd, The. William Blake . 210 

Shepherd Boy’s Song. John Bunyan . 211 

Shepherd in Winter, The . Walter Scott . 212 

Shepherd to His Love, The. Christopher Marlowe . 479 

Sheridan’s Ride. Thomas Buchanan Read . 363 

Shooting Song, A. William Brighty Rands . 72 

Showing How the Cavern Followed the Hut’s Ad¬ 
vice . John Hookham Frere . 160 

Signs of Rain . Edward Jenner . 189 

Silk Worms . Mary Elliott . bo 

Simple Simon .. Unknown . 133 

Sing a Song of Sixpence. Unknown . 116 

Sing On, Blithe Bird. William Motherzvell . 267 

Sing, Sing, What Shall I Sing. Unknozvn . 117 

Singing Leaves, The. James Russell Lowell . 369 

Sir Galahad . Alfred Tennyson .421 

Sir Humphrey Gilbert. Henry Wadszvorth Longfellozv.. 400 

Sir Lark and King Sun: A Parable. George Macdonald . 74 

Sir Launfal and the Leper. James Russell Lowell . 477 

Six Little Mice. Unknozvn . 137 

Skipper Ireson’s Ride. John Greenleaf Whittier . 425 

Skylark, The . James Hogg . 268 

Sleep, Baby, Sleep . George Wither . m 

Sleep, Baby, Sleep. Unknown .. 112 

Sleep, Sleep, Beauty Bright. William Blake . 109 

Sleepy Harry. Unknown . 3 1 

Sluggard, The. Isaac Watts . 47 

Snail The . William Cowper . 250 

Sneel, Snaul* *.. Unknown . 121 















































































































560 


Index of Titles 


Snow . Jo,ne Taylor . 96 

Snowdrops . ‘W. Graham Robertson . 38 

Snowstorm, The. Ralph Waldo Emerson . 193 

Soliloquy of a Water-Wagtail. James Montgomery . 278 

Solitary Reaper, The. William Wordsworth . 438 

Solomon and the Bees. John Godfrey Saxe . 389 

Solomon Grundy . Unknown . 133 

Son of God Goes Forth to War, The. Reginald Heber . 455 

Song My Paddle Sings, The. E. Pauline Johnson . 518 

Song of Clover, A. “Saxe Holm }> . 225 

Song of Sherman’s March to the Sea. Samuel Hawkins Marshall Byers 364 

Song of the Bees. Hannah Flagg Gould . 254 

Song of the Camp, The. Bayard Taylor . 330 

Song of the Emigrants in Bermudas. Andrew Marvell . 365 

Song of the Fire. Edward Fitzgerald . 236 

Song On a May Morning. John Milton . 198 

Songs of Autolycus, The. William Shakespeare . 480 

Song Set to Five Fingers, A. Unknown . 117 

Sonnet Composed Upon Westminster Bridge. William Wordsworth . 5 I 5 

Spacious Firmament on High, The. Joseph Addison . 456 

Spider and His Wife, The. Jane Taylor . 34 

Spider and the Fly, The. Mary Howitt . 37 

Splendour Falls on Castle Walls, The. Alfred Tennyson . 352 

196 
195 
179 

517 

197 
264 
462 


Spring . William Blake 

Spring . Thomas Nashe . .. 

Spring Lilt, A . Unknown .. 

Spring Song in the City^. Robert Buchanan 

Spring Walk, The . Thomas Miller ... 

Squirrel, The. Bernard Barton . 

St. Agnes’ Eve. Alfred Tennyson 

St. Francis’ Sermon to the Birds. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.. 465 

Star-Spangled Banner, The . Francis Scott Key . 

Stars, The. Barry Cornwall . 

Stormy Petrel, The. Barry Cornwall . 

Story for a Child, A. Bayard Taylor . 

Story of Augustus Who Would Not Flave Any 

Soup, The. Heinrich Hoffmann _ 

Strange Lands.’. Laurence Alma-Tadema 

Strip of Blue, A. Lucy Larcom . 

Summer Days . Christina Georgina Rossetti. 


•• 345 
.. 183 
.. 285 
• • 95 

•• 77 

.. 19 

.. 519 

..65 

Summer Invocation, A. William Cox Bennett . 198 

Sun, The. Thomas Miller . 191 

Sunshine After a Shower. Thomas Warton . 191 

Sunshiny Shower, A. Unknown . 141 

Swarm of Bees in May, A. Unknown .. 141 

Sweet and Low. Alfred Tennyson . 108 

Sweet Dreams Form a Shade. William Blake . 109 

Sweet Peas. John Keats . 216 

Swing, The . Robert Louis Stevenson . 105 

Swinging Song, A. Mary Howitt . 60 


T 

Taffy Was a Welshman. Unknozvn . 133 

Tar for All Weathers, The... Charles Dibden . 362 

Tea-Party, A . Kate Greenazvay . 144 

Teapot Dragon, The. Rupert Sargent Holland . 98 

Teeth, The. Unknozvn . 140 

Ternarie of Littles, A. Robert Herrick . 232 














































































































Index of Titles 


Thanksgiving Day . Lydia Maria Child . 

1 hanksgiving to God for His House, A. Robert Herrick . 

There s a Triend for Little Children. Albert Midlane . 

There Was a Chandler. Unknown . 

There Was a Crooked Man... Unknown .’ * ” 

There Was a Frog Lived in a Well. Unknown .. . . . . 

I here Was a Little Boy. . .Unknown . 

There Was a Little Girl. . .Unknown . 

There Was a Little Man. Unknown . 

There Was a Little Man. Unknown .! 

There Was a Little Nobby Colt. Unknown . ...*’’** 

There Was a Little Rabbit Sprig. Unknown . 

There Was a Man and He Went Mad. Unknown . 

There Was a Man in Our Toone. Unknown . 

There Was a Man of Newington. Unknown . 

There Was a Monkey Climbed Up a Tree. Unknown ... 

There Was an Old Man. Unknown . 

There Was an Old Woman, and What Do You 

Think . Unknown . 

There Was an Old Woman, as Fve Heard Tell... .Unknown . 

There Was an Old Woman Lived Under a Hill ... .Unknown . 

There Was an Old Woman Tossed Up in a Basket.. Unknown . 

There Was an Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe. .Unknown . 

There Were Two Blackbirds. Unknown . 

They That Wash on Monday. Unknown . 

Thing of Beauty, A.. John Keats . 

Thirty Days Hath September ... Unknown . 

This Is the House that Jack Built. Unknown . 

Thomas A Tattamus .. Unknozvn . 

Thought, A. Robert Louis Stevenson 

Three Fishers, The . Charles Kingsley . 

Three Wise Men of Gotham. Unknown . 

Throstle, The. Alfred Tennyson . 

Ticonderoga. V. B. Wilson . 

Tiger, The . William Blake . 

To a Bee. Robert Southey . 

To a Butterfly. Flora Hastings . 

To a Butterfly. William Wordsworth .. 

To a Butterfly. William Wordszvorth .. 

To a Child of Noble Birth .. Matthezu Prior . 

To a Cricket. William Cox Bennett.. 

To a Fly. William Oldys . 

To a Hedge-Sparrow. Unknown .. 

To a Little Girl. Helen Parry Eden .... 

To a Little Girl Gathering Flowers. Mary Tighe . 

To a Mountain Daisy. Robert Burns .. 

To a Mouse.. Robert Burns . 

To a Primrose. John Clare . 

To a Skylark. Percy Bysshe Shelley.. 

To a Swallow, Building Under Our Eaves. Jane Welsh Carlyle ... 

To a Water Fowl. William Cullen Bryant. 

To an Early Primrose. Henry Kirke White ... 

To an Insect. Oliver Wendell Holmes, 

To an Oriole . Edgar Fawcett . 

To Daffodils... Robert Herrick . 

To Diana. Ben Jonson . 

To England . George Henry Boker .. 

To Helen . Edgar Allan Poe .. 

To His Saviour, a Child. Robert Herrick . 


561 

74 
, 468 

457 

143 

133 
122 
135 

39 

126 

127 

142 
1 17 
132 
132 
132 
ii 5 

143 

126 

127 
125 
125 
125 
11 7 
141 
516 
ii 5 

134 
140 
101 
486 
132 
279 
334 
266 

254 
30 

253 

253 

434 
252 

255 
272 

435 
96 

221 

249 

216 

269 

274 

284 

220 

248 

281 

223 

436 
319 
435 
472 



















































































































Index of Titles 


To Market, To Market. 

To Meadows . 

To Mistress Margaret Hussey.. 

To Sea! To Sea! . 

To the Cuckoo . 

To the Fringed Gentian. 

To the Grasshopper and Cricket. 

To the Small Celandine . 

Tom He Was the Piper’s Son.. 

Tom Thumb’s Alphabet. 

Tom, Tom . 

Tragic Story, A . 

Traveller’s Return, The. 

Tree on the Hill. 

True Story of Web-Spinner, The 

Try Again. 

Turkey and the Ant, The. 

Turtle Dove’s Nest, The. 

Tweedle-Dum and Tweedle-Dee 

Twenty Froggies. 

Twilight at Sea. 

Two Legs Sat Upon Three Regs 


, Unknown . 123 

.Robert Herrick . 213 

.John Skelton . 450 

.Thomas Lovell Beddoes . 355 

.William Wordsworth . 273 

.William Cullen Bryant . 223 

.Leigh Hunt .. 251 

.William Wordsworth . 220 

.Unknown . 131 

, Unknown . 114 

.Unknown . 131 

.William Makepeace Thackeray .. 302 

.Robert Southey . 320 

. Unknown . 143 

, Mary Howitt . 256 

.William Edward Hickson . 48 

.John Gay . 169 

.Ann Hawkshawe . 23 

,• Unknown . 131 

, George Cooper . 94 

, Amelia Cop puck Welby . 517 

, Unknozvn . 141 


u 

Ulysses (Extracts) . Alfred Tennyson . 502 

Under My Window. Thomas Westwood . 64 

Under the Greenwood Tree. William Shakespeare . 210 

Up in the Morning Early. Robert Burns . 193 

Up! Up! Ye Dames and Lasses Gay. Samuel Taylor Coleridge . 229 

Upon a Great Black Horse-ily. Unknown . 117 

Useful Plow, The . Unknown . 67 


V 

Village Blacksmith, The. 

Violet, The. 

Violets . 

Vision of Belshazzar, The. 

Visit from St. Nicholas, A. 

Visit to the Lambs, A... 

Voice of Spring, The. 


Henry Wadsworth Longfellow .. 246 


Jane Taylor . 20 

Robert Herrick . 215 

George Gordon Byron .462 

Clement Clarke Moore . 79 

Unknozvn . 15 

Mary Howitt . 66 


W 

Walrus and the Carpenter, The. 

Washington . 

Water Lilies... 

Water Mill, The. 

Water! The Water! The .. 

Waterfall and the Eglantine, The.. 

Waves on the Sea-Shore, The. 

Weather Rule, A .. 

Well of St. Keyne, The.. 

Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea, A.. 

What Are Little Boys Made of... 

What Christ Said. 

What Does Little Birdie Say.. 

What Is Veal? . 


Lezvis Carroll . 

James Russell Lowell.... 
Felicia Dorothea Hemans 

“Aunt Effie” . 

William Motherwell .... 
William Wordsworth .... 

Ann Hawshazve . 

Unknown . 

Robert Southey . 

Allan Cunningham . 

Unknown . 

George Macdonald . 

Alfred Tennyson . 

Mary Elliott . 


303 

336 

154 

67 

186 

164 

24 
191 

403 

361 

129 

470 

64 

25 


JUllSi94$ 




































































































Index of Titles 


5 6 3 


When a Twister a Twisting. Unknown . 178 

When Good King Arthur Ruled This Land. Unknown ... 116 

When I Grow Up. Rupert Sargent Holland . 100 

When I Was a Bachelor. Unknown . 138 

When Icicles Hang by the Wall. William Shakespeare . 201 

When Little Birdie Bye-Bye Goes. Unknown . 112 

When the Frost is on the Punkin. James Whitcomb Riley . 206 

When the Wind is in the East. Unknown . 144 

Where Are You Going My Pretty Maid?. Unknown . 128 

Where the Bee Sucks. William Shakespeare . 254 

Which is the Favourite?. Charles and Mary Lamb . 89 

Which Way Does the Wind Blow?. Lucy Aikin . 203 

While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks By Night. .Nahum Tate . 464 

Whirl-Blast, The. William Wordsworth . 193 

White Anemone, The. Owen Meredith .225 

White Butterflies . Algernon Charles Swinburne _254 

Who Comes Here . Unknown . 131 

Who Has Seen the Wind?. Christina Georgina Rossetti . 30 

Who Is Sylvia?. William Shakespeare . 436 

Who Stole the Bird's Nest?. Lydia Maria Child . 84 

Whole Duty of Children. Robert Louis Stevenson . 101 

Why Is Pussy In Bed?. Unknown . 121 

Wild Geese. Frederick Peterson . 282 

Wild Rose. William Allingham . 218 

Wild Winds.... .Mary Frances Butts .203 

Wild Wreath, The. Unknown . 59 

Wind, The . Letitia Elisabeth London . 201 

Wind] The . Robert Louis Stevenson . 104 

Wind and the Moon, The. George Macdonald . 55 

Wind in a Frolic, The. William Hozvitt . 202 

Wind's Song, The. Gabriel Setoun . 54 

Windlass Song . William Allingham . 360 

Winny . William Allingham .434 

Winter . Edward Spenser . 204 

Winter Fire, The . Mary Howitt . 200 

Winter NieLt . Mary Frances Butts . 203 

Wish, A. ..... . Samuel Rogers .231 

Wishing .*!!!!! . William Allingham . 217 

Wolsey .****".' . William Shakespeare .494 

Woodman,* Spare That Tree'.’. George Pope Morris . 492 

Word of God to Leyden Came, The. Jeremiah Eames Rankin . 343 

World The . William Brighty Rands . 31 

World’Is Too* Much With Us, The. William Wordsworth . 5 H 

World's Music, The. Gabriel Setoun . 43 

Wounded Hare The . Robert Burns . 202 

Wreck of the Hesperus,’The. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.. 398 

Written at an Inn at Henley.RA 7 /tara Shenstone . . 51 

Written in M^arch.««R ilham Wordsworth . 197 

Wynken, Blynken, and Nod. Eugene Field . "3 


y 


Ye Mariners of England 
Year's Windfalls, A ... 
You Spotted Snakes .... 

Young and Old. 

Young Lambs to Sell .. 
Young Linnets, The .... 
Young Mouse, The. 


Thomas Campbell . 

Christina Georgina Rossetti 

William Shakespeare . 

Charles Kingsley . 

Unknown . 

Ann Hawks halve . 

Jeffreys Taylor . 


3 27 
82 
152 
498 
123 
25 

172 


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